


Conquer My Country's Heart

by MacPherson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consistent POV? I don’t know her, Enjolras is addicted to Twizzlers, Journalist Grantaire, M/M, Political AU, Politician Enjolras, gratuitous West Wing references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: He knows it’s every politician’s worst nightmare to look into those eyes, and now he understands why. He’s not sure where it comes from, or why, but in the last few seconds, he’s become overwhelmed by the urge to explain and defend everything he has ever believed in.The disillusioned political reporter. The stubbornly idealistic labor organizer running for president. Fifteen months, fifty states, five hundred and thirty eight electoral votes. Who are you fighting for?





	1. August, part 1 - Where Are the Leaders of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If one side is saying ‘we would like to expand Medicare a little bit, please’ and the other side is saying ‘poor people should just die in the gutter outside the hospital if they can’t afford decent healthcare’ how the hell are you supposed to compromise?”
> 
> In which begins a revolution (there’s an app for that), and Twizzlers are spat across the room.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

“I’m running for president.”

“You’re doing _what_?”

“I’m running for president.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m serious, Clem. I’m gonna do it. And I want you to run it for me.”

After close to twenty years of friendship, it was finally becoming difficult for Xavier Enjolras to surprise Clemence Combeferre, but somehow he had done it again.

“Where did this come from? Did you just wake up and decide to run for president?”

Xavier sits quietly for a moment, and then nods his head slowly. “Yeah, pretty much. It’s finally time.”

“And instead of doing something _sensible_ , like maybe the state legislature or Congress, you immediately decided to go for the White House?”

“Go big or go home,” he says, grinning.

“That’s… really not how this works. What’s the objective here?”

“I’ve just told you I’d like you to manage my presidential campaign, what do you think is the objective here?”

“I mean, are you running for name recognition and issue promotion, or to win?”

“You’ve known me for twenty years, what the fuck do you think?”

“You do realize that this is essentially impossible, right?”

“That word is not in my vocabulary.”

“X, I love you, but this is going to be incredibly, incredibly hard. The hardest, most grueling thing you’ve ever done or will ever do. And you need to make sure, before getting into this, that this is really the best thing for you, and for the country. Because if you run on the platform I know you’re planning and you lose, it will set the movement back. Dramatically.”

“That’s why I need you, Clem.”

It’s early August. The election is fifteen months away.

The race will begin in earnest in January with the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primary, but the leading candidates—the usual mix of Senators, Congressmen, governors, and the odd well-known businessman—have already been campaigning for seven months. They have offices. They have staffs and armies of volunteers. And perhaps most crucially, they have money, and they have name recognition.

“Who said anything about primaries?” he asks when Clem finally pauses for breath.

“What?”

“The two party system presents a false binary, and the primaries encourage a strange combination of ideological litmus-tests and self-censorship, and everyone hits the reset button in the general anyway, and pretends to forget all the primary rhetoric, and—“

Clem cuts him off before he can get any further into what would undoubtedly be an extensive dismantling of the popular narrative of the preliminary rounds of American general election.

“God dammit, X, you raging hypocrite, if you go on about the lack of true ideological moderates again I will smack you, because there is nothing moderate about you.”

“Which is why I’ll run independent—the Democrats are so concerned about electability that they’re moving further and further right. They want everyone in the sandbox to get along, but no, sometimes you have to speak truth to power and accept that that means ruffling feathers. If one side is saying ‘we would like to expand Medicare a little bit, please’ and the other side is saying ‘poor people should just die in the gutter outside the hospital if they can’t afford decent healthcare’ how the hell are you supposed to compromise?”

“I respect your mixed metaphors and your intellectual positions—shut up, I really do—but you have got to be fucking kidding me. Do you know how many members of Congress are independents? Two. Two, out of five hundred and thirty-five. Both of them are Senators. All four hundred and thirty-five Reps are either Democrats or Republicans, as are ninety-eight of a hundred Senators. That is—“ Clem whacks at her iPad for a few seconds. “—point-zero-zero-three-seven percent. The last time a third party candidate won a state was in 1968—and that was George fucking Wallace. That is what you’re up against. You have a tendency to self-sacrifice for the cause anyway, but this a new level of masochism.”

“You know you want to do this, Clem.”

“I’ve already had offers from four Senators to run their reelections.”

“But you love me.”

“I go back and forth on that.”

“Come on, Clem. You’ve been aching to manage a campaign of mine since PL 333 in junior year.”

Damn it all to Hell, he’s right and Clem knows it. If she could order a candidate from a catalogue, it would be something like him. Young, insanely handsome, with a photogenic smile, but not babyfaced. He’s gorgeous in that wholesome, ‘50s sitcom way. He has the kind of face that makes women over sixty-five pinch his cheeks and talk about their sons.

He has populist credibility. He may have two Ivy League degrees, but he didn’t go to Wall Street or Washington and sell his soul. He went to the gritty parts of Pennsylvania where the steel plants were shutting down and worked with the labor movement. The intellectuals love to talk policy and philosophy with him. The carpenters and electricians and janitors and fast food workers love his firm handshake, and when he looks them square in the eye, asks them how he can make their working conditions more fair, and then doesn’t back down until every demand is met.

It was often difficult to tell if he won over the opposition with the strength of his rhetoric or by sheer willpower, because they were often the same. His rhetoric was the means and the end.

She had known since the first time he opened his mouth in her presence, five minutes into class on the first day of PL 101, almost twenty years ago, and asked something about Plato and direct democracy and the Seventeenth Amendment, that he had the potential to be a game-changer.

For twenty years, she has been waiting for this moment. People had been telling him to run for office every day since he was eight years old, but every time, he found an excuse. He was too young and inexperienced. He didn’t know the area well enough, and wanted the people to be represented by someone who understood their concerns. He was too busy with the fight to raise the minimum wage and get mandatory paid sick leave to dedicate time and energy to a campaign.

But now, apparently, he thinks it’s the right time.

Clem is torn. To manage his campaign has been her dream job for twenty years. He would be a magnificent candidate, and she knows exactly how she’ll position him. But he’s so fucking stubborn and single-minded. If they differ on campaign strategy, she’ll have to implement her ideas while his back is turned or not at all.

Her winning streak is her proudest accomplishment. With two governors, five Congressmen, and three Senators elected in the last ten years, candidates knew that hiring Clemence Combeferre was as close to a sure win as you could get. She’s good. She’s really good. But she’s never faced odds like this. X, as she affectionately calls him, has no name recognition, no money, and no support system.

They need to run a slow-burning grassroots campaign—get him meeting with small groups of voters who would like his ideas and talk to their friends, gradually build their campaign through word of mouth. But she won’t have that luxury. That would take hundreds of field offices and thousands of volunteers in dozens of states, and he just doesn’t have that network of support. If they had started a year ago, it might have been possible, but now? To be viable, they have to get big numbers in only a few months.

The party primaries begin in four months. They’ll go to New Hampshire, even though he won’t be on the ballot, and position him as an alternative to the broken two party system. Plant the seed in their imaginations. She’ll get him in front of unions and college students, the two groups most likely to be drawn to him, and more importantly, most likely to spend their weekends knocking on doors and cold-calling strangers to try to convince them to buck the oppressively pervasive norms of American politics.

She has four months to turn her dream candidate, her best friend, into a viable contender.

This is her worst nightmare and her dream come true, all wrapped up in one devastatingly handsome, six foot two, blue-eyed blond package.

Anyone else in the business would say it couldn’t be done—that he’d be lucky to get half a percent of the popular vote next year. But Clemence Combeferre isn’t everyone else. And Xavier Enjolras certainly isn’t your average candidate.

She has a feeling she’ll regret this as soon as the words are out of her mouth, but chances like this don’t come along every day.

“Okay,” Clem says with a sigh.

X holds his hand up, offering a high five, which Clem reciprocates with a hint of reservation.

“You’re not really the high-fiving type.”

“You know damn well I am very good at the rah-rah team spirit thing when I need to be. Do you think you can teach this old dog some new tricks?”

“You don’t need new tricks, you need to reinvent the fucking wheel.”

“Then why aren’t we strategizing yet?”

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

Before X knows what’s happening, Clem has an app open on her iPad, with an outline of the state of New Hampshire. She taps seven or eight spots, and green dots appear.

“These are your field offices. We hire captains from the community—these are towns with colleges and a fairly strong organized labor presence. That’s going to be your base—people who organize, mobilize, and are willing to spend weekend after weekend knocking on doors to tell people to vote for someone they’ve never heard of, without the safety and context of a party label that decades of experience has given them gut-level instincts for.”

“You have an app for planning campaigns?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

This is suddenly very real. Of course he’d thought about running for office before—probably thousands of times since he’d first realized what elections were. He formulates policy speeches in his free time; he watches hearings on C-SPAN with the same fanaticism that normal people reserve for Netflix marathons, emerging disoriented after several days with greasy hair and bad breath, certain that he has just witnessed something life-changing, but not entirely sure what to do with the information.

“We haven’t even started talking about my policy proposals yet—I’ve been thinking about the relationship between the minimum wage and taxes, and I want to look at—“

Clem interrupts him, with a vaguely pitying look on her face. “Oh, honey. I don’t care. Right now we don’t need policy papers, we need people.”

“What? Clem!” He tries very hard to look outraged—he knows she knows what she’s doing, and if he didn’t trust her unconditionally he wouldn’t have asked her to do this, but… policy! A platform! Without an R or a D next to his name, no one knows what he stands for!

“We have so much work to do. No one will care about your policy proposals if they never have a chance to hear about them. We need to file your F.E.C. paperwork, set up your offices, your website, hire a core staff, and then we’ll start talking policy. Oh, and we’re going to need a ton of money, so start thinking hard about who you haven’t pissed off yet, because the $50 million we’ll need to be even nominally competitive sure as hell isn’t going to find itself.”

He’s chosen a bad time to take a bite of the Twizzler he had been eyeing for the last several minutes, and nearly spits a half-chewed gob of artificially sweetened red rubber across the room. “What now? Fifty million?”

“You do want to win, don’t you?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Fifty million is the bare minimum. If you want to actually be competitive, you’ll need seven to eight hundred million. So start thinking about who you know who would be willing to give you massive amounts of money with no strings attached.”

“Clem, this is why I’m hiring you—so I don’t have to think about this shit, because I trust you.”

“I’m willing to work for practically nothing until you’ve built up a strong donor base. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I can’t get you to viability. But there is something.”

“I already quit smoking for you, so this had better be less stressful.” He takes another bite of Twizzler.

“That was fifteen years ago and it was for your own good. You need to stop calling me Clem.”

“It’s your name.”

“It’s one of my names. Clemence is bad enough, but when you call me Clem it always sounds like you’re saying something else.”

“What?”

“Chlamydia.”

“Well don’t take it out on me—blame your parents.”

“Oh, believe me, I do.”

“Are you going to ask me to call you Bea again?”

“It is my name.”

“It’s your middle name.”

“It’s the one I go by these days. I was still in my peace, love, and understanding, flower child phase when I met you and decided to let you call me that. These days, people just get me confused with citrus fruits if I go by my first name.”

“Since you were the one to bring it up, I now feel entirely justified in calling you my darling Clementine.”

“Shut up.” She hits him in the nose with a Twizzler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading!
> 
> I started writing this in 2013, well before a certain person's regrettably successful presidential campaign. This fic takes place in a universe where such a person doesn't exist.
> 
> This fic is based on [this](http://thymoss.tumblr.com/post/42297309180/rouge-blanc-bleu-a-modern-les-amis-presidential) post.
> 
> The title is taken from ["Anthem"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhqud-xjAi4) from the musical _Chess._
> 
> And I'm [here](http://missmarionmac.tumblr.com) on tumblr and I promise I'm really nice.


	2. August, part 2 - Say What's Going On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, if you want to stay here trying to find yourself and your dignity in a blank Word document, by all means, feel free to do so, just let me know so I can assign someone else.”
> 
> In which someone receives an assignment, makes a connection, and decides this might not be so bad after all.

New York City.

Refreshing your email inbox all day is a truly miserable way to live.

It’s eleven a.m. He’s been sitting at his desk for an hour already, pushing letters around a Word document and checking his inbox. He’s utterly bored.

The _Times_ announced another round of budget cuts last week, but somehow, despite having a story published once in a blue moon, he still has a job.

He taps his pen against a notebook near his computer. God, is he bored.

It hasn’t always been like this. Ten years ago, fresh out of journalism school, he threw himself wholeheartedly into his assignments for the small Washington DC alternative weekly paper. He had been fact checking a piece on the charity foundation run by his favorite Senator’s brother when he found it.

His report that uncovered the worst political corruption since Watergate made his career. There were resignations, impeachments, hearings, trials, investigations, commissions, special reports.

He was the most respected political investigative reporter in the country six months into his career.

It should have motivated him.

It should have driven into him that, yes, what you are doing matters, it’s important, you’re making a difference.

Instead, it destroyed him.

He hasn’t believed a word out of a politician’s mouth since.

He left the job in DC after less than a year. At that point, he was still traveling around because people kept wanting to give him awards, and he just didn’t have it in him to keep reporting. In every acceptance speech, he extolled the value of a free press to hold public figures accountable, but the words felt hollow. His Pulitzer is in a box under his bed. People pointed to him as a sign that journalism in America was not dead—that the twenty-four-hour news cycle and cable TV and the internet were not killing investigative reporting.

That one fucking article, riddled with rookie mistakes, is the only thing anyone ever wants to talk to him about. _Ooh, you’re Oscar Grantaire_ , they say, _how does it feel to know you single-handedly brought down a Senator before your twenty-fifth birthday?_

_It feels like I have nothing left to look forward to, thanks for asking._

He’s spent the last decade bouncing around, not staying anywhere more than a year or two. He did some reporting here and there—a column for this paper, a cover story for that magazine. He worked in TV news production for a while before realizing that he hated it. The blog only lasted a few months—he soon realized that people expected regular posting. As in, multiple times a week—preferably every day, multiple times a day. He just didn’t have the fucking patience for that.

Somehow he’s ended up on the New York _Times_ payroll, although why they keep him around is a mystery. He’s lost track of how many times he’s thought about quitting, giving it all up and going to live in the woods or the desert or on an island somewhere. But the whiskey doesn’t pay for itself.

Over the top of his computer monitor, he sees Gabe Bahorel, his editor, approaching. There is purpose in each one of his long strides.

Bahorel arrives at his desk, glances over it, and sighs.

“Jesus, Grantaire, have some fucking self respect. Your body is a temple and all that.”

“Yeah, but I’m a sixteenth century Calvinist.”

Bahorel snorts and drops a file onto Grantaire’s desk. “You’re going to New Hampshire for the foreseeable future. There’s a labor organizer running for president—independent—and you’re covering him.”

“What? Fifteen months to the election and you’re sending me to cover an independent? Who is this guy? The second coming of Christ?”

“Start investigating him and find out. If he starts turning water into wine—I’m sure you’ll enjoy that—make sure you include that in your copy, with a note about how the chemical composition makes it impossible.”

“If I knew how to turn water into wine I sure as Hell wouldn’t work for you anymore.”

“Oh, Grantaire, how you warm the cockles of my cold black heart.”

“Fucking Hell, dude—I can’t believe you’re sending me to cover a no-name independent.”

“Hey, if you want to stay here trying to find yourself and your dignity in a blank Word document, by all means, feel free to do so, just let me know so I can assign someone else.”

Grantaire sighs. “Fine.”

He starts with the basics: the campaign press kit. Where are the inconsistencies? Where are the generalizations? What are they trying to steer away from?

Something in all of this feels achingly familiar. This guy is a labor organizer with no electoral experience, but this is far too organized to be the work of an amateur. He goes back to Enjolras’s biography.

Blah, blah, childhood, blah, blah... there we go. There it is.

He has a hunch, and his notes from covering last year’s midterm elections confirm it.

Cornell. That’s the common link. Enjolras must have met her at Cornell.

So. Beatrice Combeferre is in on this. He can’t help but smirk. This might be more fun than he originally thought.

Even he, a bitter, hardened journalist known for unmasking the secrets everyone thought were hidden forever, has to acknowledge a well-run campaign when he sees one, and in recent years, Bea Combeferre has proven herself to be one of the best. She runs a tight ship. An incredibly clean, positive, feel-good, detail-oriented and usually focused on education policy ship.

So Bea Combeferre and Xavier Enjolras go way back. Even if they’re best friends, why is she risking her burgeoning career to run a campaign that is going nowhere? No friendship is worth that.

This is her first presidential cycle since she really established herself as one to watch. He can name a dozen candidates off the top of his head who would love to have Bea Combeferre working for them. How did she end up running Enjolras’s certainly doomed campaign? What does he have on her?

He finds a couple speeches on YouTube from marches and strikes this guy has led, and yeah, he’s a good speaker. A great speaker, even. Electric.

It’s a very pretty speech, and he has the crowd in the palm of his hand.

But people have been giving pretty speeches for as long as humans have had language, and the world still sucks.

He’s inherently distrustful of people who rely on pretty speeches and charisma to charm their way into office.

Burroughs was unquestionably the most charismatic and talented speaker in the Senate, and he used that to hide what was really going on.

He’s been fooled once. He’s not going to let it happen again. _Everyone_ , even no-name labor organizers from Pennsylvania with perfect hair and blazing blue eyes, has something to hide. There is no one in a position to run for president who doesn’t have a few skeletons in their closet.

The speech ends, awkwardly cutting off the raucous cheers from the crowd. He hits replay.

On the second time through, he catches some of the more subtle rhetorical moves. If he actually believed that the identity of the person occupying the Oval Office made any real difference when Congress couldn’t even find a way to pay their own bills, he might even be tempted to vote for the guy. But since he gave up long ago on the belief that any single individual in Washington, even the President, can do anything to fix the place, he dismisses it.

But, _fuck_ , it’s not just the speeches that are pretty.


	3. August, part 3 - A Group That Could Become Historic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Finally something wrong with America that isn’t the Republicans’ fault.”
> 
> In which he meets his team.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Two days after he told her his plans, Enjolras obeys Combeferre’s directive that he meet her on a particular street corner in downtown Pittsburgh.

“Say hello to the new national headquarters of Enjolras for America,” she says, indicating a vacant storefront with brown paper covering all the windows.

“I have no idea how you do it.”

“I’m devastatingly efficient. We’re having phone lines, internet, etc installed tomorrow—and yes, before you ask, everyone will be unionized. And the best part is that it’s free.”

“How?”

“Your first in-kind donations. Now come meet your people.”

“I have people?”

“For someone so smart and so experienced, you are still remarkably naïve.”

Combeferre pulls him into his new offices. The place is a mess. In addition to the paper over all the windows, half the overhead lights don’t seem to work, and there are several veritable barricades of office furniture.

He looks up and sees three people waiting for him. He recognizes one of them.

“Felix!” He calls, getting the attention of the tall man who had been gently patting his smooth, bald head as if checking on a bruise. “Felix Lesgles. I can hardly believe it. You look great! What’ve you been up to?”

“Hi, Xavier. Oh, I’ve been here and there. Doing this and that. You know me—never in one place for long. Just got back from Minnesota, actually, working on something with the Mayo Clinic.”

“That’s terrific—how’d you like it?”

“I liked the work a lot, but a brother cannot stand to stay in the upper Midwest for long. Say what you will about racism in America’s major cities, but at least here people don’t stare at me like they’ve never seen anyone darker than a Norwegian before.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Ridiculous. Anyway, I’m glad to have you as a part of this venture we’re starting here.” He shakes Lesgles’ hand again.

“Sure thing, man. I always knew you would run, and I always knew I wanted to be a part of it.”

“That means a lot.”

“And X,” Combeferre cuts in, gesturing to the two women standing beside Lesgles, “I’d like you to meet Cosette Fauchelevent and Eponine Thenardier. Cosette is your communications director, and Eponine is in charge of opposition research.”

“Great to have you both on board,” he says as he shakes Cosette’s hand, then Eponine’s.

“Great to meet you,” says Cosette.

“We’ve heard a lot about you from Combeferre,” adds Eponine.

“And you still took whatever offer she made?”

“Look,” replies Cosette, “I can’t speak for Eponine, but I trust Combeferre’s judgment. This will be the fourth campaign we work on together, and as you well know, she’s the best in the business.”

“No argument here.”

“Alright, everyone, we’ve got a lot to go over, so shall we get started?” Combeferre asks.

They sit in a circle on the floor, because the chairs haven’t arrived yet.

“I’ve created social media accounts,” Cosette says, “and I’ve started building the website, but I don’t have much content for it yet. I’ve also had a friend mock up some graphics. We need a consistent look across everything—posters, lawn signs, email headings, the website, everything.”

“Do you have anything for us to look at?” Asks Combeferre.

Cosette opens her laptop and turns it so the screen is visible to everyone.

“We’ve got a problem, in that the two major parties have dibs on two of the three colors. And trust me when I say that you do not want white as your primary campaign color. So either we do some combination of blue and red, or we go with something like green.”

Enjolras glances over the four sample campaign logos on Cosette’s computer screen. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Clearly your friend is a talented graphic designer, but I’m not sure about these.”

Combeferre sighs.

“We need a decision, X.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you have an opinion in there somewhere.”

“Why can’t we use red?”

“You know perfectly well why we can’t use red.”

“Fucking Republicans stealing my favorite color.”

Combeferre responds to his grumbled grumpiness with bemusement.

“Actually, it was the Democrats who went for blue because they didn’t want to connect themselves to communists anymore than absolutely necessary. The Republicans got the sloppy seconds.”

“Finally something wrong with America that isn’t the Republicans’ fault.”

Eponine and Lesgles look at each other and grin.

“Okay,” Combeferre says. “Let’s leave the graphics for now and move on to talking strategy and tactics. We’re going to focus on New Hampshire for the next few months, even though we aren’t on the ballot in the party primaries. The state will be crawling with press, and New Hampshire takes the whole primary thing really seriously, so people will be talking politics ad nauseum. The goal is to get people talking about _us_. Labor is our signature issue. And of course we’re going to flood the college campuses. Lesgles has already gotten the ball rolling on setting up field offices in several college towns across the state and building relationships with student groups.”

“Okay,” Enjolras responds. “That all sounds good and productive, but we also need to talk about the actual policies we’re running on.”

“Right,” Combeferre replies. “As I said, labor is your signature issue, so I pretty much trust you to develop your own policy proposals on that. The other issues we’re planning to focus on are education and healthcare.”

“What I really think we should emphasize,” Enjolras says, “is how those issues are all connected, especially, at least right now, labor and healthcare. Having people be dependent on their jobs for their health insurance is a major problem that keeps people from leaving shitty jobs, or from starting their own businesses. Not to mention that giving private corporations that much control over the health of their employees is seriously problematic.”

“Is this going where I think it’s going?” Eponine asks.

“If you’re thinking it’s going directly to single-payer Medicare for all, then yes.”

“Which the Democrats really should have adopted as the bedrock of their platform several decades ago,” Lesgles adds. “But they’ve been too scared.”

“Exactly. Also, my tax policy proposal boils down to: tax the rich.”

“That works for me,” Eponine says with a grin.

“Okay,” says Cosette, her fingers flying over her computer keyboard. “I’m going to need writeups of all these policies to put on the website. And I’ve been thinking that it would be a good idea to launch the campaign with a video, or a series of videos. One sort of introductory, biographical video, and then a series focusing on one issue in each. People are much more likely to watch a short video that they come across on Twitter or YouTube than they are to go to your website to read your proposals. We need to make this information as accessible and as shareable as possible.”

“Good,” Combeferre nods. “Lesgles, can you make the arrangements to bring in a video crew to shoot those? Maybe early next week to give ourselves a few days to get the scripts right?”

“Sure thing.”

“Alright, we’ve covered a lot, so I think we can conclude this meeting, unless anyone has anything they’d like to bring up?”

Combeferre looks around the circle, and when no one responds, she ends the meeting.

They all head off in various directions to get to work, except for Lesgles, who approaches Enjolras.

“Hey—could I have a minute?”

“Of course.”

“Earlier, I mentioned I worked with the Mayo Clinic? I know some people who would be happy to consult on healthcare policy. Um, one in particular. Yukiko Joly. She specializes in preventative care, and I think you’ll like her ideas.”

“You worked with her?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s she like?”

“Oh, she’s great. Kind of eccentric, but she’s brilliant and I think you’re very much on the same wavelength. But…”

“What’s the issue?”

“We dated for a while.”

“And it’s over?”

“Yeah. I mean, the breakup was mutual and about as amicable as things can be, but…”

“There’s something else?”

“She’s kind of dating… another of my ex-girlfriends.”

“And you’re still friends with her?”

“You know me, man. I’m friends with everyone. Working with the Southern Poverty Law Center a few years ago, I even made friends with a member of the KKK.”

“What?”

“Yeah, black guy with a bad habit of accidental arson and a Grand Wizard. We were an odd team, that’s for sure. Of course he told me that I’m not like the rest of my kind and expected me to take it as a compliment.”

“You are an absolute saint, Felix Lesgles. Do you think you could reach out to Joly and ask her about this?”

“For sure. I’ll get right on it.” With a smile and a friendly clap on Enjolras’ shoulder, Lesgles walks away.

Enjolras gets to work on his policy proposals.

He doesn’t even notice when everyone except Combeferre bids them goodnight, or when the late August sun finally sets.

He does notice when Combeferre pulls his laptop out of his hands.

“It’s almost ten, and you really can’t afford to set yourself on a burn-out pace. Plus there are a few more things I wanted to talk about before we call it a night.”

Enjolras rubs his eyes.

“Go for it.”

“First up, how does Clare feel about this?”

“We haven’t really talked about it.”

“ _What?_ ” Combeferre is incredulous.

Enjolras shrugs. He’s the one running, not his sister. He doesn’t really see the big deal, and says as much.

Clearly that’s the wrong thing to say, because Combeferre practically grabs him by the ear and pulls him into her office.

“You are calling Clare right now, and telling her that you are coming over for dinner tomorrow. You will then have a lovely homecooked dinner with your sister and your niece and your nephew—the three people who, may I remind you— _are your only living relatives_ , and then once the kids have gone to play their video games or reprogram their robot servants or whatever the fuck it is that kids are doing these days, you will tell your sister that you have some big news and you’re hoping for her support.”

“I still don’t see why she has to be involved.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re _single_.”

“And?”

“Voters need to see commitment. Stability. You’re not married. You’re not in a long-term relationship—hell, you’ve barely ever _had_ a long-term relationship. Voters need to see the human side of the candidate too, and despite, well, the aesthetics of your face, people are going to be suspicious of your incredible lack of a personal life. We need to humanize you. Ergo, your sister.”

“I refuse to exploit my sister for my own gain.”

“What, if any, role she plays in this campaign is for the two of you to discuss and determine, but you need to tell her you’re running. She needs to hear it from you, and she needs to hear before anyone else does.”

“Fine. I’ll call her.”

“Good. That’s one thing off the to-do list. On to the next.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to need a deputy.”

“I thought Lesgles was your deputy.”

“He is, but he has a very specific and specialized role. I’m going to need a more general deputy.”

“Okay. Go ahead. Make the hire.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“They’ll be working closely with you, won’t they? Surely their compatibility with you is more important than my opinion.”

“Yeah, until we get to the point where I’m overseeing everything from HQ here and the deputy is the one traveling with you.”

“You really think this operation will get be enough that that will be necessary.”

“You can’t have it both ways, X,” Combeferre says with a fond roll of her eyes. “You can’t have a campaign small enough that the campaign manager travels everywhere with the candidate and be competitive. So take the time to come around to the idea that a major goal for this campaign is to reach a size where you don’t know everyone personally. I know that will be hard for you. And as for a deputy, I was thinking that _you_ might have someone in mind.”

“Who did you think I would think of.”

“Akram Feuilly.”

“ _Feuilly_?”

“He’s an obvious candidate. You two have history together. You already know you work well together.”

That they do.

Back when Enjolras was working on his Master’s degree at Harvard, Akram Feuilly worked in the registrar’s office. One of his job benefits, in addition to moderately decent health insurance, was that he could audit one class per semester.

One of those classes happened to be one that Enjolras was taking, and they became fast friends. That friendship began in the classroom and was cemented when they worked together to help Harvard’s food service workers organize their strike when the university squashed their attempt at unionization.

“He would be amazing, but he’s got enough of his own shit to deal with. I don’t want to burden him or make him feel obligated. Because he would. He’s that sort of person.”

“I know. But at least do him the courtesy of calling him and telling him you’re running for freaking president and he can have as much or as little involvement as he wants.”

“Okay. I will. After I call Clare. Which I will do as soon as I get home. Which is why I’m leaving now. See you tomorrow?”

“One more thing,” Combeferre says. “We have to talk about Marius Pontmercy.”

“Really?” Enjolras groans. “Do we, though?”

“Look, he’s not my favorite person either, but we do need to talk about him. He's in Congress now. We need him. More specifically, we need his donor list."

Oh, yes, Enjolras remembers Marius. Of course he remembers Marius.

Marius was that kid from the rich family, with some uncles in Congress or something, that you expected to be a complete arrogant jackass. It turned out he was pretty quiet, occasionally saying something devastatingly intelligent if slightly misguided when called on in class, but spent most of his time sitting about three quarters of the way back, looking marginally interested in the lecture. He had been in a fraternity, of course, but had seemed somewhat uncomfortable with the institution, and had apparently now fulfilled his family’s expectations by getting himself elected to Congress as a moderate Republican from Maryland.

“Do we really think there’s anyone on his donor list who would donate to a campaign based on unionizing fast food workers, Medicare for all, oh, and I added a fairly massive carbon tax to the environmental proposal.”

“You’re right,” Combeferre sighs, “it probably won’t yield much, but it’s a place to start. And you need the practice. It’s worth a shot.”

“So we’re not at all concerned by how much he still loves Reagan?”

“Oh, trust me, we are very concerned by how much he still loves Reagan. So he’s always been slightly misguided, but he means well. That said, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

“So, it’s complicated?”

“Yup.”

“Anything else, before I go home and face-plant into bed?”

“Don’t think so.”

“See you tomorrow?”

Combeferre reaches out and pulls him into a hug. “Absolutely.”

He makes his way to the door, and is pulling it open to leave when he turns around.

“Clem?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. You’re doing an amazing job.”

She smiles.

“I know.”


	4. August, part 4 - Students, Workers, Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On the one hand, it will be incredibly entertaining to watch him rip you to shreds. On the other hand, stay as far away as you can, because he will find shit that only God and your mother know about you.”
> 
> In which the revolution begins in earnest.

The next time he enters the office, Enjolras is shocked at the transformation. The desks are neatly arranged around the main room, the chairs have arrived and been distributed, and there is at least one telephone on each desk.

Eponine—wearing headphones— and Cosette are sitting at neighboring desks, both focused on the computers in front of them.

The brown paper still covers the windows, but it’s starting to look more like an office and less like a warehouse.

There are several offices off the main room, and Enjolras heads for Combeferre’s. Her door is open, and she’s talking on the phone while simultaneously typing something on her computer. Enjolras leans against the doorframe.

“...alright, thanks Joan. Tell the governor I said hello. Bye.” Combeferre hangs up the phone and looks up at Enjolras. “Good morning.”

“‘Morning. What’s on the docket for today?”

“You’re calling Marius Pontmercy, remember?”

“I thought _you_ were calling Marius Pontmercy. You know he’s still terrified of you after the way you completely shut him down that one time in sophomore year.”

Combeferre rolls her eyes. “Well _someone_ has to call Marius Pontmercy. We can do rock-paper-scissor for the privilege later.”

“Guys—guys! We made it!” Cosette yells as she comes running through the door, effectively ending their conversation.

“Explain, please.” Combeferre is cool and calculated as Cosette excitedly pushes her hair out of her face.

“You will never guess who just called me with an interview request.”

“Mark Twain,” Enjolras deadpans.

“No, but I bet he’d be fun,” Cosette says with a grin.

“Out with it, Fauchelevent.”

“Oscar. Grantaire.”

Combeferre punches a fist into the air. “Yesssss.”

Enjolras looks at her with furrowed brow. “I don’t follow.”

“Oscar Grantaire? _The_ Oscar Grantaire? New York _Times_? Broke the Burroughs story?”

“Oh. Right. Him. Okay. That’s good. Means that someone is taking this seriously.”

“Someone?” Combeferre is practically squeaking. “If by _someone_ you mean the New York fucking _Times._ ”

The commotion has caused Eponine to look up from her computer screen in the next room. She pulls her headphones off and walks towards Combeferre’s office. “What’s the fuss?”

“Oscar Grantaire wants to interview Enjolras,” Combeferre responds gleefully.

“Grantaire called?” Eponine turns to Enjolras.  “Oh, Jesus. On the one hand, it will be incredibly entertaining to watch him rip you to shreds. On the other hand, stay as far away as you can, because he will find shit that only God and your mother know about you.”

“Well, my mother’s dead, so…”

“Right. Sorry.”

“My mom’s dead, too,” Cosette says, her eyes filled with compassion.

“And mine is just a deeply shitty person,” Eponine adds.

“You were born in South Africa, weren’t you, Cosette?” Enjolras asks.

“Yes. I never knew my biological father, and my mother was killed in apartheid-related violence when I was very young. The man I’ve always considered to be my dad knew her, and adopted me after that, and we came here.”

“Look,” Combeferre says gently. “I do think this is a very important bonding moment, but I also think that we have a lot of work to do before we leave for New Hampshire next week.”

“What do I tell Grantaire?” Cosette asks.

“Tell him no.” Combeferre replies.

“ _What_?” The other three reply in near perfect unison.

“No interviews with national media until at least December. We start with the small, local papers and television stations, build goodwill, and then expand from there. Of course you can answer his questions at press conferences, but no one-on-one exclusive interviews until at least December.”

“Okay,” Cosette replies in a tone that suggests she thinks it’s anything but. “I’ll tell him no, and I’ll tell him about the press conference we’re planning in New Hampshire.”

* * *

Where Xavier Enjolras is the inferno blazing through the forest, destroying what needs to be destroyed and clearing the way for new growth, his sister Clare is the lake, with a rhythm of her own, teeming with life and activity just below the surface, stopping the progress of the fire merely by being in its way.

She responds to his declaration of his presidential plans by raising one eyebrow as she takes a sip of coffee, her eyes boring into him.

His big sister has always had a gift for making him feel very small and insignificant.

That is not the best thought to be having right now.

“I suppose Beatrice Combeferre thinks I should be involved in your campaign somehow.”

“That’s up to you. But obviously it would mean a lot to me if you were.”

“And my adorable children too, I suppose.”

“That’s also up to you.”

“No promises.”

“Of course. I understand.”

* * *

“I’ve already got someone up in Manchester setting up your first New Hampshire field office,” Combeferre tells Enjolras the next morning.

“Really? Who?” Enjolras asks.

“You’ll find out when we get there tomorrow,” she replies.

“Oh, come on.”

“Nope. My lips are sealed. But trust me, you will be delighted.”

* * *

Enjolras’ campaign-launching videos are posted the next morning, as he, Combeferre, and Cosette depart for New Hampshire.

They settle into their seats on the plane. Cosette is obsessively monitoring the videos’ engagement numbers until she has to switch her phone to airplane mode.

Combeferre lets out a long breath.

“Alright, people. Let’s go make history.”

* * *

Enjolras is sure he’s seeing an illusion. It can’t be real. There is no way that Akram Feuilly is standing there in the arrivals area of Manchester Regional Airport, casually leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone. It must be someone that bears an incredibly strong, borderline creepy resemblance to him.

But then not-Feuilly looks up, and all doubt is gone from Enjolras’ mind. Not-Feuilly has become definitely-Feuilly, and Enjolras can’t help himself. He takes off jogging across the room and embraces his friend.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks him.

“What, Combeferre didn’t tell you?” Feuilly replies.

“No, she most definitely didn’t,” Enjolras says, turning to glare at the woman in question.

“I’m your newest deputy campaign manager. I’ve been setting up your office up here.”

“Well, she did tell me about the office, and said I would be delighted with who she found to set it up, and that’s certainly true.”

“It’s really good to see you.”

“It’s really good to see you, too,” Enjolras replies, reaching out to hug Feuilly again. “And thank you for the incredible amount of faith you’re showing by taking this on.”

“For you, man? Anything.”


	5. September - They Will Come When We Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do realize that you just hired an actual Manic Pixie Dream Girl as your speechwriter, right?”
> 
> In which they find themselves in the same room for the first time.

Manchester, New Hampshire.

Well, the weather forecast was wrong. Spectacularly, spectacularly wrong. It’s pouring with rain in Manchester, that angry autumn rain that has a vendetta against you because you aren’t a fish.

Grantaire is sorely tempted to refuse to even get off the plane, but with a sigh makes his way to the rental car agency and then his hotel.

Because he likes to get his trips started on the right foot, he tosses his luggage into his room without fully opening the door or turning on the lights, and goes back down to the bar.

He’s into his second glass of whiskey—on an empty stomach, no less, he knows he’ll regret this tomorrow but, hey, that’s tomorrow’s problem—when in storms the personification of angry self-righteousness.

The first thing Grantaire notices about the candidate is his eyebrows. They’re furrowed in an odd combination of concentration and disdain. He looks angry and impatient, and if he had the nuclear codes right now, you had better watch out.

Grantaire has Enjolras in his field of vision for maybe ten seconds, but that’s enough. From that brief glimpse, he can definitely see why the suckers are falling for the guy. He’s attractive. That’s the understatement of the year.

Grantaire doesn’t even believe in intangible shit like this, but the only word to describe the certain something Enjolras has is _aura_. People aren’t supposed to be _magnetic_ like this.

This is un-fucking-believable. Shit like this doesn’t happen in real life. In the movies it goes in slow motion and the lighting softens and angels sing. There’s a neat narrative and the things that are supposed to make sense actually do. But this is real life. This is _politics_. There is no neat plan. The plan is to scramble to the top of the pile as quickly as you can, using other people to boost yourself up and then pushing them down once you’re on top. It’s brutal and it looks like fun until you’re too far in to get out again, and then you’re stuck in there forever, owing things to people you really wish didn’t own your soul, but if you want to survive, you can’t do anything about it.

He doesn’t have the patience to try to define _charisma_ when there are numbers in the budget proposal that don’t add up.

He believes in things he can see. His paycheck, and all the bills it has to cover. The glass in his hand. The fact that said glass is now empty, and it’s problematic.

* * *

Enjolras breezes past the hotel bar, past the schmoozers and the drunks. He’s never had much of a taste for alcohol, not even in college. More than two drinks, and he can’t concentrate, and that’s just about his worst nightmare.

He glances at the business suits sitting there as he passes. There are three possible reasons to be at a hotel bar at two pm on a Wednesday, and none of them interest him. Corporate types closing deals over scotch don’t interest him. Sleazebags desperate to get laid don’t interest him. And anyone drinking for the sake of drinking certainly doesn’t interest him. There are a million things to do—speeches to write, phone calls to make, policies to formulate. Anyone who can’t find something productive to do in Manchester, New Hampshire in the middle of a weekday afternoon at the height of primary season isn’t worth his time.

* * *

Grantaire takes a sip of his new glass of whiskey. It’s better quality than the swill at his favorite cheap NYC watering hole, and it burns his throat. This is one way to make yourself feel warm when the temperature has fallen thirty degrees in twelve hours and water is pouring from the sky in angry sheets of rain that soak through your clothes in two minutes, umbrella and rain jacket be damned.

There are other, less lonely ways to warm up, and that thought makes him sigh and take another, larger, sip.

* * *

Enjolras has his first press conference the following morning, and Cosette keeps looking at him with furrowed brows as she goes over the final list of reporters. Despite what everyone seems to believe, he is actually human, and press conferences are nerve-wracking for anyone. Giving a speech, he can control. Heck, even a debate gives you more control than this. But he needs to get his name out there, so he’ll take just about anything he can get at this point, and Cosette wants to get him used to facing the media in all kinds of situations, so a press conference it is.

Cosette goes downstairs to the conference room to check the setup. They pulled the table out of the room and set up a podium. She checks the mics and greets the gathering reporters with a sweet smile. It’s a smaller crowd than she would like, but it’s only a week after the announcement. It’s a place to start.

She goes back upstairs and gives them the thumbs up. All set. Ready whenever you are.

Combeferre is distracted—a potential major donor needs to move their meeting up by half an hour, meaning that this press conference was just cut in half. Enjolras would prefer to spend the time talking to the press, rather than sweet-talking people who are disgustingly rich and think that donating to his campaign will buy them access should he be elected. He adds campaign finance reform to his long list of issues to address. Democracy shouldn’t be for sale.

But if he wants to be competitive in this race, he needs to grin and bear it. For now, at least. So he’ll acquiesce and meet with the donor. He’ll smile, and he’ll be charming, but he’ll be suppressing the urge to punch the guy in the face.

First, he has the press conference. He goes over his main talking points one more time with Combeferre, and she gives him a pep talk. And then they go down.

Combeferre takes up a position at the side of the room, leaning against the wall. Cosette stands beside Enjolras at the podium to referee.

He looks out over the assembled journalists. There are about a dozen of them. Not bad, all things considered. Most of them are recording audio and casually jotting down notes, but there are four cameras set up on tripods.

He swallows, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. Time to get this show on the road.

But then he makes the mistake of making eye contact with the surly reporter sitting in the fourth row, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Oscar Grantaire showed up.

Under a mop of unruly almost-black curls, above at least two days worth of stubble and a nose that looks like it was attached ever so slightly sideways, are the most disarming pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen. Brilliantly blue like the first clear December day after a snowstorm, icy and bright in a way that sends a chill over your cheeks and makes it deliciously painful to inhale.

He knows it’s every politician’s worst nightmare to look into those eyes, and now he understands why. He’s not sure where it comes from, or why, but in the last few seconds, he’s become overwhelmed by the urge to explain and defend everything he has ever believed in.

“Hello, everyone, thanks for being here.” Thank God for Cosette and her composure. “I’m afraid we’re a bit short on time, so we’re going to keep this short and sweet. Concord _Monitor_ , you have the first question.”

* * *

_Jesus Christ._ It was one thing to see him angrily stalking across the room when he looked up from drowning his sorrows in his second glass of single malt. It’s another thing entirely to be ten feet away from him and supposedly working. How the fuck is he supposed to work like this?

Candidates do not get under his skin. Candidates _never_ get under his skin. He hasn’t felt anything warmer than disdain for a politician in almost a decade. Last year, he even made a Senate candidate cry, and that guy had retired from the Army as a Green Beret. Politicians do not fluster him, but here he is, scrawling absolute nonsense for notes and dreading the moment Cosette Fauchelevent calls on him to ask a question, because he’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to speak.

* * *

They’re on their way back to the office after a union-sponsored Labor Day forum when Combeferre springs a very unpleasant surprise on her candidate.

“You need a speechwriter.”

“I do not need a speechwriter. I will write my own damn speeches, thank you.”

“In a few weeks, you’re barely going to have time to call your family to tell them you love them, let alone having time to write your own damn speeches. Find someone you trust, and delegate.”

He sighs dramatically, and she rolls her eyes. She’s right. Of course she’s right. But he’s damned if he’ll admit it.

They make a stop at a coffee shop for a mid-afternoon snack, and because the coffee shop is a small, locally-owned business that serves exclusively organic, free trade coffee and food from local suppliers, and has a partnership with the high school to provide restaurant management and accounting classes and after-school jobs for underprivileged students.

He shakes hands with the owner and the staff, and when he eventually gets around to ordering, something on the newsstand by the counter catches his eye.

“You sell books, too?”

“That’s a poetry collection by one of the literature postgrads at the university,” the owner says, snapping the top onto the cup containing Enjolras’ latte. “She’s the one that started our slam poetry series here. And she does workshops and tutors at the high school, too. She’s really something.”

He takes a copy of the book, and Combeferre hands over the campaign credit card to cover the two trays-worth of drinks and dozen bagels they ordered.

Once they’re back in the car, he knows he should be revising his speeches for the rest of the week, but for some reason this poetry collection is burning a hole in his pocket. He takes it out and begins to read.

Four pages in, he takes an absentminded sip and a few seconds later is apologizing to Feuilly for spitting latte onto his sleeve.

“Poetry is making you do spit takes now? Really?”

“Sorry, man.” He dabs at Feuilly with a napkin, his eyes still focused on the page.

Back at the field office, before he makes more phone calls asking his friends for tens of thousands of dollars, he goes to the website listed on the back of the book.

There’s a “Contact Me” button in the top right-hand corner.

He knows this is a bad idea. He knows he’s going to be in so much trouble with Combeferre. He never does things like this—he’s never spontaneous. But then again, he never gets gut feelings like this either. And he made a mental pro-con list, so he can say with honesty that he totally did a cost-benefit analysis before taking action, right?

Nothing is going to come of this, he tells himself as he hurriedly types out a message. She’s totally not going to go for this. And since Combeferre will kill me before she replies, I have nothing to worry about.

Sighing, he hits the send button. Here goes nothing.

He knows he shouldn’t be checking his email while begging potential donors for large sums of cash, but he just can’t help it. When something is on his mind, it’s on his mind.

So when the email comes in, he ends his call with a hurried, “well, thanks for thinking about it—let’s get lunch sometime” and opens it.

_Mr Enjolras—_

_I wish to express my most sincere thanks for your expression of appreciation for my little contribution to The Great Conversation, and for your offer. While I have never been particularly inclined towards electoral politics, preferring to meditate on the ephemeral nature of our existence, I am intrigued at your proposition and intend to take you up on your offer to visit your offices tomorrow afternoon._

_Most sincerely,_

_Johanna Prouvaire_

He will deny it until the day he dies, but he does something resembling a fist pump before hollering for his campaign manager.

“I have someone coming in tomorrow afternoon to interview for speechwriter,” he tells her, biting into a Twizzler.

“How the fuck did you find someone so fast? Without talking to any of us, you sneaky bastard!”

“Sometimes things just fall into place,” he replies, waving the book in her face. “Read this and you’ll understand. Hell, read five pages and you’ll understand.”

“A book of poetry you picked up in a local, organic, free-trade coffee shop? I understand you want to, you know, live your life according to your beliefs—totally respect that—but this is a bit… much.”

“Just read the sonnet on page four, okay? All will become clear. I promise.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you’re just as much of an idealistic sap as I am, you just don’t want to admit it, so you carry out your dreams through me. Next question.”

Combeferre rolls her eyes as she opens the book to page four.

A few seconds go by, and then she’s holding on to Enjolras’ arm, trying not to fall over laughing.

“This is what has you so excited?” She manages to choke out.

She doesn’t think she’s seen such an insulted look on her best friend’s face since he reenacted for her the scene of him finding out, at age seven, that you had to be thirty-five to be president.

“You’re all excited because this poet used one of your favorite de Tocqueville lines in a _sonnet_? And know you’re pulling this person in to interview for _speechwriter_? Seriously?”

“Seriously. She’ll be here at two o’clock tomorrow.”

* * *

She floats into the office, a storm of flowers and red lipstick, and how on earth do pumpkins and carrot cake make orange and green an appealing color combination when her outfit is nearly blinding him?

“Johanna Prouvaire?” He goes up to her.

“Yes!” She responds, offering him her hand and blushing bright red as soon as they make actual eye contact.

“I’m Xavier. Thank you so much for coming in—I’m really intrigued by your work.”

“That’s so kind, oh my goodness. Like I said, I’ve never really considered working in politics before, and I was very surprised by your message.”

He holds an arm out, gesturing to his office. “Well, let’s sit down and talk about this, shall we?”

Her blush, which had been fading as they exchanged pleasantries, brightens up again.

They sit down in his office. He asks her about her influences, her writing process. He gives her the transcripts of some of his past speeches to look over.

And then for the final step of the interview, he asks her to write a short stump speech for him. He leaves her alone in his office, stepping out into the main room to make more phone calls.

She emerges twenty minutes later, a yellow legal pad tucked under her arm. She hands it to him.

As he reads what she wrote, his jaw gradually drops. He finishes the final paragraph and extends his hand towards hers.

“You’re hired. If you want the job, that is.”

“It would be an honor.”

* * *

“You do realize that you just hired an actual Manic Pixie Dream Girl as your speechwriter, right?” Combeferre asks Enjolras over their dinner of Chinese takeout.

He shrugs. “She’s the best person for the job.”

“She’s twenty-three, with a literature degree, a self-published poetry collection, and no political experience.”

“You read the poems, though, right? Did you catch all the Whitman references? And she managed to quote Alexis de Tocqueville _in a sonnet_. Ordinary people don’t _do_ that. She’s the one.”

Combeferre sighs her practiced sigh of patient exasperation. “She’s a lovely person. She’s a very talented poet. I’m just a little concerned that she’s going to be a little out of her depth.”

“Then read this.” Enjolras pushes the speech at her. “She pulled this out of nowhere in twenty minutes flat.”

Combeferre begins to read, and as her eyes progress down the page, her jaw lowers. “Holy. Shit. Twenty minutes?”

“It’s like she can read my mind, and find a way to say things that I can’t find the right words for. And she already has a sense of my rhythm and pacing, just from talking to me.”

“Okay. I understand your decision slightly more, having read that. But I will be keeping a very close eye on her for the foreseeable future.”

“Fine.”


	6. October-December - Stand Up and Take Your Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm pretty sure he's just a workaholic policy wonk with the romantic instincts of a slug and an utter lack of self-awareness, but whatever. You decide what gets published."
> 
> In which requests are denied, someone hates pants, and someone looks like a Kennedy.

New Hampshire Route 125, between Manchester and Durham.

One question you should definitely ask during the interview when hiring your campaign staff, Enjolras realizes, is how they handle long car trips. Less than twenty minutes into her first ride with the team, and Johanna Prouvaire has pulled out a ukulele.

It wouldn’t be that bad if it was just the ukulele. He can handle whimsical stringed instruments.

It’s the ukulele playing, combined with belting out the greatest hits of *NSYNC. In German. “Bye Bye Bye” has never sounded so incredibly menacing.

He stares out the window, watching the suburbs roll by. They’re on their way to a university, for a forum co-hosted by several student groups.

It goes about as well as he could have expected it to. One of the groups hosting the event is the university’s chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, and they _love_ his “expand unions, Medicare for all” stance.

He would like to stay and chat with the students after the event is over, but Combeferre pulls him away, saying something about how they have to get back to the office because a local TV reporter is coming to interview him.

She’s there, chatting with Cosette while her cameraman sets up, when they get back.

She starts the interview with some softball—and he thinks, irrelevant—questions about his childhood. Then they move through his education and his organizing career.

And then she throws him not another softball, but a changeup.

“There are some rumors about you and your campaign manager, Beatrice Combeferre. What do you say to that?”

Right. Everyone else calls her Bea, because everyone else is afraid of her.

“We’ve been best friends for twenty years. She’s like a sister to me, and I think it’s ridiculous that a man and woman can be colleagues and best friends for twenty years and the only way to explain the closeness in that relationship is through a romantic or sexual lens. And I don’t want to say we’re ‘just’ friends, because I believe that diminishes and belittles that friendship and implies it’s less valuable than a romantic or sexual relationship. We’re incredibly close, I value her opinion above almost everyone else’s, and she’s never let me down.”

“So you’re single?”

He lets out a little chuckle that he hopes will mask his utter disdain for the question. Even though he knows it will cause a lot of collateral damage, he’s going to run over Combeferre’s iPad with the fucking campaign bus. As soon as they get one. It’s a rented Prius for now.

“Well, there’s one woman I love…”

He hates himself for going down this road. He could take the opportunity to talk about the pervasive and stifling influence of heteronormativity, but he knows Combeferre would threaten to quit again, and he would be lost without her.

“Ooh, and who is the lucky lady?”

“Lady Liberty.”

The reporter’s neck tenses up, and her eyes widen for a millisecond before her practiced, relaxed, photogenic smile returns. She expertly steers him back onto the road she wants to take, and asks him about the values that would govern his presidency.

He wants to yell, _ask me about public school funding reform! Ask me about changes to student loans, and the minimum wage versus the real wage versus the cost of living and the fallacy that is the poverty line, and how I would restructure foreign aid! Ask me anything but these bland, boring, tenth grade class president questions, because the Congressional Budget Office isn’t going to care about how I arrived at my fucking “liberty, equality, justice” slogan._

It feels like an eternity, but the interview finally ends. As soon as the reporter and her cameraman are out the door, Enjolras lets out a frustrated breath, and stands to stretch.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Combeferre asks him, handing him a grinder.

“Ugh,” he replies, unwrapping it and taking a bite. “Is it too much to ask to do interviews with journalists who will actually ask questions about my policy proposals?”

“At this point, yes.”

* * *

Grantaire rolls his eyes as he answers his phone.

“How’s my favorite reporter liking New Hampshire?” Bahorel’s voice asks him.

“The Florida of the North is as charming as ever.”

“So I got your email.”

“Lucky you.”

"I read the copy you sent. Grantaire, it reads like a tenth grader trying not to offend anyone. I’m bored to tears. You’re calling it ‘The X Factor,’ but this copy has none whatsoever. Where's the edge? Where's the soul? People have never heard of this guy—introduce us, give us a sense of who he is. Interview his family."

"His parents are dead and his sister won’t talk."

"Interview his wife."

"He's not married."

"Even better. Find out who he's sleeping with."

"That big green statue in New York Harbor, apparently. He told a local station that Lady Liberty is the love of his life."

Grantaire pulls the phone away from his ear so as not to be deafened by Bahorel’s barking laugh.

"Oh my God, that is amazing. Seriously—that’s gold. Put that in. I mean, could we be dealing with potentially the first asexual president? This is good stuff."

"I'm pretty sure he's just a workaholic policy wonk with the romantic instincts of a slug and an utter lack of self-awareness, but whatever. You decide what gets published."

“I want a revised draft in my inbox on Monday morning.”

Grantaire sighs. “Sure thing.”

* * *

Enjolras knocks on Combeferre’s hotel room door first thing the next morning.

She opens the door a crack, carefully inspecting him. “You alone?”

He nods, and she closes the door briefly to remove the chain, before letting him in.

She has a hairdryer in one hand, a croissant sticking out of her mouth, and is wearing a buttondown shirt and not much else. He regards her bare legs with apathy.

“Jesus Christ, Clem, would you put some fucking pants on?”

“Well excuse me, I wasn’t expecting company. Grantaire called again, by the way. He’s working on an in-depth piece about you, probably to run in the magazine.”

“And you still won’t let me talk to him?”

“Because you’re not talking to the national press until January.”

“But it’s the _Times_! I’m supposed to be the idealist and you’re supposed to be the pragmatist, and I can’t believe you’re passing up an opportunity to put me in the New York fucking _Times_. Besides, they would ask me about policy, not my lack of a spouse.”

She kisses his cheek and pats his shoulder. “You’ve got me, babe. Why would you ever want to get married? Now get out.”

“But it’s the _Times_!”

“Hey! Jackass! Do you trust me?”

“I’m regretting it more and more everyday, but yes.”

“Then let me do my job. And remind me to tell Lesgles to book hotels with better breakfasts. This croissant blows.”

“I hear there’s a really good breakfast place not far from here. Blake’s. Hooksett Road. Across the parking lot from the Rite Aid.”

“You owe me _so many waffles_.”

* * *

Grantaire’s piece runs on the cover of the New York _Times_ Magazine the weekend before Thanksgiving. Eponine managed to get a copy before it was published—Combeferre refuses to let Eponine explain how she did it to maintain plausible deniability in court, should it ever be necessary—so Combeferre has a response ready on the day of publication.

The photo on the cover was snapped as Enjolras waited to take the stage at his first big rally, two weeks ago. He’s standing in front of a navy blue curtain, but because the photo is black and white, it might as well be a studio backdrop. The shot captures his profile from the waist up. He’s gazing at something above him, his head at an angle that makes him look even more like a marble statue than usual.

He looks inspired, resolute. His gaze is firm but not hard or intimidating.

He looks presidential. The resemblance is striking—he looks like Kennedy, and Combeferre is almost fighting back tears.

“The X Factor,” the headline proclaims. “Can Xavier Enjolras change everything we take for granted about presidential politics?”

There’s nothing unexpected in the piece—when you see the name Grantaire in the byline it usually strikes fear in even the most confident campaign manager, but this is more of an introduction. It’s positively biographical.

There are quotes from classmates, professors, the Harvard food service workers whose strike was the first he organized. There are glowing anecdotes told by workers all over Pennsylvania who have benefited from his work. Everyone speaks of his passion, his dedication, his formidable intellect, and his common touch.

There are the quotes from his sister’s friends—or, at least people claiming to be his sister’s friends. They talk about the crash, about the Enjolras siblings losing their parents, and how he threw himself into work like never before, suddenly aware of deadlines and of the human expiration date.

It can’t all be positive of course, and the piece chronicles the reaction to his campaign—what has so far been bemusement from the Republicans and polite, diplomatic dampened fury from the Democrats. The Dems, of course, are worried that Enjolras will split the liberal vote and clear the way for a Republican victory, but they don’t want to alienate him in case they need him later.

There’s considerable space dedicated to his inexperience—he’s never run for office before, all his experience with lawmaking has been as an activist. Is he really qualified to run the country? (“Right! My Master’s in Public Policy from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard and fifteen years of organizing—agenda-setting, coalition management—isn’t enough qualification to be chief policymaker? What more do these people want?” She can practically hear him yelling.)

Cosette sticks her head into Combeferre’s office. “Grantaire has been calling every hour since nine this morning.”

“He’s always been obnoxious.”

“I can’t keep ignoring his calls.”

“Okay. Next time he calls, schedule a one-on-one exclusive interview for him with Enjolras for the first week in January, about a week before the primary.”

“Really? More than a month away?”

“Yes.”

“You think that’ll shut him up?”

“Hopefully, but we shouldn’t hold our breath.”

“Got it. And what’s the deal with Rep Pontmercy? Is he endorsing?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“But he’s coming here.”

“Yup.”

“Who finally made the call?”

Combeferre sighs. “I did.”

“And he’s coming on Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“Are we doing anything with this on social media? Or are we just leaking it to the papers?”

“Right now, we’re just leaking to the papers. Leak it to the local papers, and to the _Globe_ , the _Post_ , and the _Sun_.”

“Boston, Washington, and Baltimore? We’re ramping up the national press?”

“Yes. Grantaire’s _Times_ mag cover story opened that door very nicely.”

There has already been an increase in attention on the campaign since the story was published. In addition to Grantaire’s hourly calls, Cosette has fielded calls and interview requests from ABC, CBS, and NBC. Also CNN and MSNBC, and every major newspaper and magazine in the country. And BuzzFeed.

After she very politely denied MSNBC’s interview request but offered them press credentials to travel with and cover the campaign, Rachel Maddow herself called to try to change her answer.

That was the most difficult phone call Cosette had ever answered, but she held firm to the instructions from Combeferre, even though it broke her heart to say no to _Rachel Maddow_.

“I’m starting to get really overwhelmed,” Cosette tells Combeferre. “There are interview requests coming fast and furious from all over—we’re starting to get international press—the _Guardian_ called this morning—and keeping up with all the social media and web stuff, and writing all the press releases, and dealing directly with the media…”

“I completely understand,” Combeferre replies. “We’ll start looking for more press and communications people, but in the meantime, how about we get Eponine up here to help out?”

Cosette smiles. “That would be great. Thanks.”

* * *

Eponine arrives on Monday, followed approximately twenty-four hours later by Representative Marius Pontmercy of Maryland’s Sixth Congressional District.

“Hubba hubba,” Cosette exhales as she catches sight of him.

Enjolras hasn’t seen him in years, and it’s not like they were ever actually friends, so this all feels somewhat surreal. Pontmercy has hardly aged since they were nineteen-year-olds with wildly different views on Medicare reform—sure, he’s got lines around his blue-gray eyes—who doesn’t?—but the eyes are still wide and innocent. In his two and a half terms in Congress, Pontmercy has repeatedly been the top choice in those “Most Eligible Bachelors in Washington” features, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Enjolras figures it has something to do with the bashful smile and the freckles. People like freckles, right?

Eponine turns to Cosette. “I would totally have had a really pathetic crush on him when I was sixteen, wouldn’t I?”

Cosette is somewhat preoccupied with trying to disguise the fact that she’s looking the Congressman up and down with all the subtlety of a circling shark. “Why not have a totally pathetic crush on him now?”

“What, like you right now?”

That comment earns her an elbow to the ribs and Cosette’s most earnest attempt at a Death Glare, which really isn’t all that intimidating.

“Because you know as well as I do that bad boy is my type, and there’s nothing bad about that. He probably doesn’t even watch porn, for fuck’s sake, out of some misguided idea about purity, rather than the violence and misogyny that have become inher--”

“—inherent in the medium. I know. You’re right. But I’m going to enjoy the pretty. Can’t we just enjoy the pretty?”

Pontmercy is shaking every hand as he makes his way across the room, and Enjolras could _swear_ that as Pontmercy approaches Cosette, and their eyes meet, and their hands reach for each other, that time slows down a bit, and the lighting changes. All that’s missing is the dramatic background music.

Enjolras is flat-out amazed that both Cosette and Marius manage to maintain a sense of professionalism through the meeting.

Marius seems interested in their campaign, but extremely noncommittal about becoming personally involved. He does say, however, that the Enjolras campaign is a hot topic on Capitol Hill. According to him, at least forty members of the House of Representatives, and eleven Senators, knowing that he went to college with Enjolras, have approached him to ask about Enjolras’ campaign.

Combeferre’s face contorts in a clear effort to suppress a grin.

Pontmercy has another meeting he needs to get to, so with another round of handshakes, a promise to talk again soon, and a final longing look in Cosette’s direction, he departs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> The photo on the cover of the New York Times Magazine is based on [this one](http://missmarionmac.tumblr.com/post/180690700379/he-looks-like-a-fecking-kennedy) of Aaron Tveit.
> 
> Also, Blake's is a real restaurant in Manchester, New Hampshire, and I spent a lot of time there between 2008 and 2011.


	7. January - Just One Burst of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know that people think I’m too idealistic, that I’m naïve. But if the alternative is to be jaded and cynical and defeatist, I’ll stick to idealistic and naïve.”
> 
> In which eyelashes distract from a discussion of privilege, and someone pointedly doesn’t repeat an adjective.

Combeferre insists that Cosette spend an entire week prepping Enjolras for his interview with Grantaire.

“Really?” He whines. “The Iowa caucuses are _tomorrow_ , the New Hampshire primaries are two weeks from tomorrow. There are so many other things that would be a better use of Cosette’s time, and mine.”

“Listen,” Combeferre says, pushing him into a chair. She has her Serious Face on. “Oscar Grantaire is one of the most trusted political reporters in this country. This interview is incredibly important. It has the power to make or break you. So you are damn right that you will be preparing for it like it’s a final exam.”

“Okay, but no more than an hour a day.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Enjolras wakes on the morning of The Interview with a pit in his stomach.  

He barely tastes his breakfast. He’s very glad that Feuilly accompanies him to his meeting with local small business owners and workers, because once it’s over, he can’t remember a thing that was said.

There are still several hours before The Interview. Cosette, bless her, tries to do some final interview prep with him over lunch, but eventually she realizes it’s hopeless and goes off to do something that will actually get results.

After lunch, Combeferre and Feuilly accompany Enjolras back to the hotel from the office. Grantaire is supposed to arrive for The Interview at two o’clock. He’ll be met by Combeferre, who will show him in to the living room/sitting room/whatever you call it of the suite the campaign staff is currently occupying. Enjolras will be there already, and that’s where The Interview will take place.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly arrive at the hotel at half past one.

Combeferre and Feuilly both sit down to do actual work.

Enjolras paces. For a full half hour.

The landline phone on the table by a sofa rings. Combeferre answers it.

“Okay, send him up. Thank you.”

She hangs up the phone.

“Grantaire is on his way up,” she tells Enjolras. She begins to gather up the copious amount of paperwork she had spread across the desk in the corner of the room.

There’s a knock at the door.

Feuilly opens it, and there he is. Oscar Grantaire is standing there, notebook tucked under one arm, slight smirk on his face.

Combeferre, observing from the side as she prepares to leave the room, feels the side of her mouth twist up as Grantaire holds onto Enjolras’ hand slightly longer than strictly necessary, and his fingertips brush against the fearless leader’s wrist as they separate. With a pile of newspapers and speech drafts and raw polling data in her arms, Combeferre bids them farewell. Feuilly follows her.

“Have fun, boys,” Combeferre says, closing the door behind them.

Enjolras clears his throat as he sits down.

“Thank you for doing this,” Grantaire says, placing his recorder on the table between them. “You’re a tough man to nail down.”

“Well, scarcity principle and playing hard to get and all that. You’re a hardened investigative journalist—I figured you’d wear down my press team eventually.”

Grantaire catches Enjolras’ eyes. He’s amused, teasing, trying to lighten the mood.

“Right.” Grantaire straightens his notes, lining up the bottom of his notebook with the edge of the low table that separates them. “Just to confirm before we begin, I am recording this interview, and everything you say is on the record. The recording and any transcription of it will never be published or released—it is to ensure the accuracy of my notes.”

“Sounds good. Now go ahead and start grilling.” As he issues the invitation—or is it a dare?—the candidate leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his loosened tie dangling— _dammit, Grantaire! Focus!_

He begins with a fairly easy, he thinks, question about why Enjolras is running for president, and why voters should trust someone who has never run for office or held any position of public trust.

And he gets the standard Enjolras answer. I’m running because I don’t believe the two party system gives voters their best options, I’m fighting for working people, not for those who were born on third base thinking they’d hit a triple.

“Every politician says that. Why should voters trust you—a first-time candidate without party infrastructure behind you—instead of a candidate and a party that has a proven record?” Grantaire asks.

“That’s exactly what’s wrong with the two-party system. In the primaries, candidates try to fit into this mold of who is the most ideologically pure in their party. And then in the general election, they move away from that and try to appeal to as many voters as possible. I don’t have to prove myself to a party. I can say honestly what my views are without having to worry about a party telling me I should be saying something else.”

“Human beings have been having these fights for thousands of years—big government, small government, who has what rights, etc. What makes you think you have all the answers?”

“I don’t.” Enjolras replies as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “That’s why I find this so fascinating. Every generation adds something to our understanding of the human condition and how the world works and our idea of how the world should work. Sometimes those ideas work out brilliantly and sometimes they’re cautionary tales of exactly what we _shouldn’t_ do, but I believe we have a responsibility to continuously study the past, draw out the best ideas, add our own experience, and try to make the world better for those who will come after us.”

“But what good is making the future better when people are suffering right now? What does Joe the roofer in Paducah, Illinois, who has been unemployed for two years, care about studying the human condition if he can’t cover his mortgage? And Maria the cleaning lady who fled violence in Honduras, brought her children here, and lives in the Bronx, in constant fear that she and her children will be deported back to that same violence?”

“Well Joe in Paducah and Maria in the Bronx certainly aren’t going to get any help if we just sit here talking about how everything is impossible and it’s not even worth it to try. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And yes, sometimes—too often, in fact—we move too slowly and people suffer more than they should. But fixing systematic problems takes time and patience. Imagine where we’d be without Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid. If the society that created those programs had decided not to bother because they couldn’t fix everything right away…” he trails off. “I know that people think I’m too idealistic, that I’m naïve. But if the alternative is to be jaded and cynical and defeatist, I’ll stick to idealistic and naïve.”

Grantaire nods a few times as he finishes taking notes on that lengthy manifesto. “So you genuinely believe in all that?”

Enjolras regards him for a few moments, his head tilted slightly to one side, a slight frown on his impossibly handsome face.

“Do you believe in anything?” He asks.

Grantaire shrugs. “Not really. But we’re not here to talk about me.”

Enjolras deals with complicated issues on a daily—hourly—basis, but it’s been a long time since he’s been so completely baffled.

“I genuinely don’t understand,” he says. “I really don’t. How can you look around and see all the suffering and inequality and injustice in the world and not want to do something about it?”

“Sticking to your talking points, I see.”

“They’re not just talking points to me—they’re my beliefs. I know you hear this all the time, but I’m fighting for something. I’m fighting for an America where every kid—really, every kid, no matter what ZIP code they’re born in—has the same chance of success. Not just the abstract idea of success, but really, where we address, head on, the systems of oppression that still exist that we like to think we eliminated in 1963. Nothing will change until we start honestly addressing the institutionalized oppression that still exists in this country.”

“And as a straight, white, middle-to-upper class male from a factory town in Pennsylvania with an Ivy League education, you’re the man to do that?”

It’s only a fraction of a second, but Grantaire catches it as he looks up from his notes. One word in that question causes a flash of gray in Enjolras’ impossibly blue eyes.

Grantaire leans back in his chair, biting the inside of his lip. This just got interesting.

Enjolras stares at his hands for a moment, trying very hard to look nonchalant.

He doesn’t quite know how to respond. He’s never really settled on a label for his sexuality—he’s thought seriously about sexuality at a societal level, institutionalized heteronormativity, the pervasiveness of gender norms, issues of trans access to services and facilities, but he’s never thought about it long enough to put a label on himself. He’s certainly never been forced to talk about it in public.

He’s had relationships—short, tempestuous ones that ended because no one but Combeferre would put up with his complete and all-encompassing dedication to making other people’s lives better. He’s had a fair amount of unattached sex; he’s kissed but hasn’t told. He even made out with Combeferre once. They were twenty and it was a dare, and she burst out laughing as soon as it was over, and that was the last time he ever drank that German stout whose name he couldn’t pronounce even when sober.

“As a white middle-to-upper class man with an Ivy League education, yes, I’ve been very lucky, there’s no doubt about that.” Enjolras speaks slowly, deliberately, and Grantaire is certain it’s because he wants to bring attention to the fact that he’s repeating some, but not all, of the adjectives Grantaire used.

Grantaire leans forward to scrawl something in his notes, trying to hold back the satisfied smile threatening to take over his face— _this stuff is getting good._

Enjolras thinks he might be reading a little too much into the slight smirk appearing at the edges of Grantaire’s mouth. _Oh God, oh God, play it cool. Look him in the eyes, but not at his eyes the way he’s writing in his notes and doing the whole chin down, eyes up thing, looking up through those lashes and oh my God definitely don’t look at how his lips have parted just a little bit in the center as the smug bastard traps you into heavily hinting that you’re queer._

_Privilege, X, you’re talking about privilege. Time to trot out that anecdote Clem likes so much._

“I wish to God everyone had the chances and the support I’ve had, and this is something I’ve thought a lot about—which fights are my fight, how do I speak about issues that don’t directly affect me without appropriating someone else’s struggle and without being a benevolent savior that lifts people up because they can’t lift themselves. But I had a professor in college who said something that has stuck with me and motivated me every day.

“It was in a class on the first amendment, or a class on civil rights, I honestly don’t remember which—I took a lot of his classes—and he said that—I’ll never forget this—your politics should be a reflection of what’s good for you, not what’s good for anyone else.

“This professor had an incredibly profound influence on me—probably because I disagreed with just about everything he ever said, and he was a very tough grader, which frustrated me and motivated me and forced me to put together bulletproof arguments. But that one thing he said really stuck with me. The real core of what I believe is that what is good for someone else is good for me. I believe that when someone else gets a good education, and a good job, and does well—I believe that benefits me, too, because it benefits America.

“There’s a pervasive fallacy in the American mentality—which is that everything is a win/lose scenario. If someone is winning, if someone is succeeding, that success must come at someone else’s expense. But I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it’s a zero-sum game. I believe there’s a way to make sure that everyone has the chance and the tools and the support to do well.

“We’re told constantly that if we work hard, we’ll get ahead—that’s the American Dream. But we don’t live in a vacuum. There are things outside of our individual control that impact whether we’re able to get where we want to go—things as basic as who our parents are and how they raise us, where we’re born, the school districts we live in, the food we eat and water we drink, what kind of medical care we have access to. Too many people in this country aren’t given the opportunity to prove themselves—because through no fault of their own, they don’t have access to the education and the resources that would enable them to succeed.

“We need to get out of this mindset that middle-class white men are the default and everyone else is the ‘other.’ History classes are the history of middle and upper-class white men. Women and people of color and people of marginalized gender identities and sexual orientations get separate classes. And while it’s incredibly important to recognize the contributions people from those groups have made, we need to incorporate them as part of, for lack of a better word, mainstream history.”

“And your campaign is a step forward in changing the mindset that middle-class white men are the default?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras briefly closes his eyes so Grantaire won’t see them roll.

Neither of them pays any attention to the knock on the door.

“I hate to interrupt—“ Combeferre is poking her head in, but Enjolras doesn’t think she’s sorry at all.

“Can it wait, Clem?”

“I’m afraid not. I promised the _Times_ forty-five minutes with the candidate, and it’s been an hour and a half. We rescheduled the producer from _60 Minutes_ for tomorrow and they are not happy about it, and we need to leave for the next event in fifteen minutes.”

“Shit. Just give me five more minutes.”

“Are you sure?”

Grantaire regards the candidate with amusement. He’s trying very hard to look relaxed, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that he’s shooting at his campaign manager.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

Combeferre backs out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Sorry for the interruption. Please continue.”

“Not at all. I think five minutes gives us time for one more question.”

“As long as you don’t mind asking while I change my tie. I’m speaking to a group with some sort of connection to Ireland, so red simply won’t do.”

“No, no that’s fine. I’ll just… ask, then.”

Enjolras has already stood up and gone over to the closet.

“Do you genuinely believe that you have a chance at winning? The last time a third party candidate won a single electoral vote was before you were born.”

Enjolras freezes for a moment, his hands by his throat. Grantaire is just beginning to think he’s not going to get an answer, when the candidate slowly turns around.

“Everyone loves to remind me of that.” One side of his mouth is twisting up, and there’s warmth in his eyes, alongside maybe a little resentment and a healthy dose of frustration.

“No one takes third party candidates seriously.”

“You’re here.”

Dammit.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t believe there was something to cover. The New York _Times_ assigns Oscar Grantaire to interview me and cover my campaign, and puts a practically glowing—by your standards, anyway—piece about me on the cover of the magazine, and I’m supposed to believe that means no one is taking me seriously, that my candidacy is a joke?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what the latest poll numbers say.”

“No, you don’t,” Enjolras sighs as he finishes knotting his emerald green tie.

Another knock on the door is followed by the return of Combeferre. “You’ve really got to get going, X. Feuilly is already on his way downstairs to the car.”

* * *

He replays the entirety of the interview in his head in the car on the way to the event. He has to have missed something, missed an opportunity somewhere.

He’s never met anyone he can’t persuade before, and it’s frustrating. Even the most obnoxious members of the Pennsylvania state legislature weren’t this stubborn when he met with them to discuss collective bargaining arrangements. But then again, the Pennsylvania state reps didn’t have those _eyes_ and that _smirk_ and they weren’t wrapped in the enticing scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey.

Of course he’s had interviews in the past that have gotten him worked up, made him angry. A quick mental tally tells him that this is at least the fourth in the past week. But he’s never had one like this before. He’s never felt so completely undone.

Reporters are supposed to ask tough questions. Fuck, he’s spent the last five months wishing for tougher questions, and here they are, but something about this interview strikes him as fundamentally unfair. Reporters aren’t supposed to _mock_ you. If he had gone on the _Daily Show_ , yeah, he would have been prepared for a good-natured ribbing. But a reporter from the New York _Times_ essentially telling him that his most deeply held beliefs are _stupid_ and that he’s an idiot for running and doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell and blah blah blah. Yes, he knows the numbers. Thanks a lot.

He’s only marginally aware of the speech he’s giving, and he’s on autopilot as he takes questions from the audience. As far as he’s concerned, he’s still in that hotel room, parsing every question, racking his brain for what went wrong.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Feuilly says in the car on the way back to the hotel.

“Hmm?”

“You’re all… distracted. Anything you want to talk about?”

“Nah. I’m just thinking about stuff. Things.”

“How did the Grantaire interview go?”

He stares out the window. “Fine.”

“I should hope so—you two were at it for more than double the amount of time we allotted him. Do you think you gave him material with the potential for another magazine cover story?”

“Maybe.”

“Seriously, man. Is everything okay?”

Enjolras sighs. “Yeah.”

As soon as they arrive back at the office, Enjolras heads straight for the phones, and Feuilly heads straight for Combeferre’s office.

“Something’s wrong with him,” he says as he closes the door behind him and sits down in a chair facing Combeferre’s desk.

Combeferre pushes her laptop to one side of the desk. “And what might that be?”

“I don’t know. He gave a hell of a speech at the Irish whatever-it-was, he killed the Q&A, but in the car, it was like a switch was flipped. He was monosyllabic.”

“Are you sure he’s not just tired?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m sure he _is_ tired, but it’s more than that.”

“Has he gotten any bad news lately? I mean, other than the poll numbers?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So what the hell is going on with him?” Combeferre asks, leaning back in her chair.

“The only thing I can think of that’s changed in the last few days is…”

“The Grantaire interview.” Combeferre finishes.

“Right.” Feuilly replies.

“What the hell happened in there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That professor anecdote? Yeah, happened to me. And it’s true that I genuinely can’t remember whether he said it during the class on the First Amendment or the class on civil rights.


	8. February-May — Rally the People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do not have a crush on him.”
> 
> In which there are primaries, more interviews, and important phone calls.

Plymouth, New Hampshire

“I’ve decided I’m going to write a book about the two party system in this country,” Grantaire says into his phone.

“Oh really?” Bahorel replies. “This doesn’t have any relation to a recent interview of yours, does it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Of course you don’t. Just don’t forget that your actual job right now is to report on his campaign. Are you ever going to submit anything from that interview for publication?”

Grantaire sighs. “It’s not really newspaper article material. It’s got magazine potential though.”

“C’mon man, you _just_ wrote a magazine cover story about him.”

“Yeah, and then he got really fucking philosophical when I finally got to interview him alone.”

“Okay, well just… keep at it, okay?”

Grantaire sighs again. “Yeah.”

* * *

Enjolras, Feuilly, and Cosette stop at a diner for lunch, in between campaign events.

“Grantaire wants to interview you again,” Cosette says after the waitress has taken their order.

“What, he didn’t get enough material last time? Has he even published anything from that interview?”

“Word on the street is that he’s writing a book about the two party system in America and whether there will ever be a viable third party,” Feuilly chimes in.

“Well I can definitely see why he’d want to talk to people involved in our campaign,” Cosette replies. “Are you interested?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Enjolras fiddles with his napkin.

“Okay,” Cosette says with a firm nod. “I’ll set up some more interviews.”

“Good.”

They descend into awkward silence.

* * *

The night before the New Hampshire primary, Enjolras doesn’t go to bed at all.

Johanna has gone back to the hotel, and Combeferre, Cosette, Eponine, and Feuilly have joined Enjolras’ late-night vigil at the Manchester office.

They have an MSNBC stream playing on one computer, CNN on another, and copious snacks.

“Are the Dixville Notch returns in yet?” Enjolras asks as soon as the clock hits one minute past midnight.

Combeferre chucks a piece of popcorn at his head. “Just because this tiny town in the middle of nowhere in the North Country, with a population of thirty-eight, votes at midnight, it doesn’t mean their _results_ are in at midnight. It’ll take at least ten minutes.”

“Have a Twizzler,” says Feuilly, offering a bag of them to Enjolras.

“Thanks, man,” Enjolras replies as he takes a handful and continues to pace.

“ _Holy shit!”_  Cosette screams, jumping up out of her chair and turning up the volume on the MSNBC stream.

“What is it?” Combeferre asks, running towards Cosette’s desk.

Cosette points to the MSNBC stream, seemingly unable to get out any more words.

“So, as expected,” Rachel Maddow is saying on the screen, “Senator Tanya Payne of California decisively won the Democratic vote in the tiny town of Dixville Notch, and Governor Frank Thornton of Texas won on the Republican side, but the biggest surprise out of Dixville Notch as the New Hampshire primary got underway just after midnight, is that Xavier Enjolras, an independent candidate who was not on the ballot in either party’s primary, received two write-in votes, one from a Democratic voter, and one from a Republican. Now for more on what this means, I’m joined by--”

“Holy shit is right!” Combeferre exclaims, pulling Enjolras into a tight hug. “You know what this means, right? The next polls don’t close until eight pm. That’s _twenty hours_ of the cable news having _nothing_ to report on but how _you_ got two votes in Dixville Notch.”

“The media calls will be coming fast and furious today,” Cosette adds. “Who do we want to talk to, and when?”

“I’ve got another _Times_ interview in the afternoon, don’t I?” Enjolras asks, extricating himself from Combeferre’s grasp.

“Yes,” Cosette replies, “two o’clock, here at the office.”

“Would it be a good idea to put out a statement about the Dixville Notch returns?” Feuilly asks.

“Yes,” Cosette and Combeferre reply in unison.

“I’ll get right on it,” Cosette continues, “but what should I tell all the media outlets that are about to start blowing up my phone?”

“We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Combeferre says, scrolling through her iPad. “So we’ll put out that statement, then we will all go back to the hotel, _get some sleep,_  and we’ll meet back here at seven to talk through the day. Anything else?”

Silence.

“Okay, good. Let’s go.”

But Enjolras doesn’t sleep.

* * *

Grantaire is waiting at the campaign field office when Enjolras returns from a lunch meeting that ran long. He’s sitting by Eponine’s desk, and they’re chatting away and laughing like old friends, which, now that Enjolras thinks about it, they probably are.

A few moments pass before Grantaire notices his presence.

Grantaire stands, and his eyes darken.

“Hello again.” Enjolras says.

“Hello,” Grantaire replies. “I’m sure you’ve had an exciting day so far.”

“That’s one way to put it. What was that you were saying last time about my not having a snowball’s chance in hell?”

One side of Grantaire’s mouth twists up in a way Enjolras should not be thinking about.

“So you’ve taken the first few steps up the hill. It’s still a hell of a hill to climb.”

Enjolras indicates Combeferre’s office. “Shall we?”

Grantaire nods, and follows Enjolras. “Might as well.”

As Grantaire sets up his audio recorder and pulls out his notebook, Enjolras arranges himself in a chair.

“Same deal as last time regarding the recording and my notes,” Grantaire says, sitting opposite Enjolras, not meeting his eyes.

“Fine. I just don’t understand how you can say that nothing ever changes when you are proof that things can change. I mean, look at what your reporting did to Burroughs.”

“Yeah, look at what my reporting did to Burroughs,” Grantaire parrots back bitterly. “Everyone else in the Senate was shocked— _shocked_ —that that sort of shenanigans was going on, when most of them were doing something very similar. They were all perfectly outraged, said so on cable TV, threw him under the bus, and carried on with the business of not doing anything meaningful.”

“So that means it’s not worth even trying?”

“Oh go ahead and try all you want. Just accept that no one else is as pure and virtuous as you, and that to do anything meaningful, you’re going to have to sell your precious, righteous soul to the devil. No one in Washington is clean.”

_And you’re going to make idealists look like fools when you and Payne—let’s face it, she’s got the nomination all but sewn up already—split the liberal vote and Thornton coasts into the White House with a landslide victory because the liberals were too busy squabbling amongst themselves over who was the most ideologically pure. You’re martyring yourself. You’re going to lose and you’re going to have nothing to show for it. Nothing changes—nothing ever changes. It never has, it never will, it never can. In order to change the system, you have to play the game, and the game ruins everyone. It bleeds you out slowly, it robs you of your sincerity, your perspective, your humanity._

_You can’t change the system except from within, and everyone who makes it in close enough is battle-hardened and soulless. The system is rigged, and it can’t be fixed, because no one pure enough to fix it can get in._

_You’re still clean. You’re still pure. Go back to where you might actually be able to make a real difference. Go back to whatever regional theater production of Newsies created you. Don’t do this. It will ruin you, just like it ruins everyone else. No matter what you do, no matter what happens, you can’t win. If you’re the chosen one, the system will ruin you. If they send you home, you’ve martyred yourself. Either way, it is impossible for you to do what you want to do._

* * *

By nine o’clock that night, the primary results are in.

Shortly after nine o’clock, Enjolras does his first live, national television interview, with Rachel Maddow, appearing via satellite from a local New Hampshire TV studio. He pinches himself just before the feed of him goes live, _because he’s about to be on TV being interviewed by Rachel Maddow._

* * *

“Clem…” Enjolras whines to Combeferre over coffee the next morning, folding up the newspaper he had been reading.

“What is it, darling?”

“I’m pissed at the New York _Times_.”

“Oh dear. We can’t have a presidential candidate upset with the way one of the nation’s premier news organizations is covering his campaign. That’s certainly never happened before, and it just won’t do.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” He crosses his arms over his chest and pouts.

“God, you’re fucking adorable when you’re all pouty.”

“Hmph.”

“You can’t just expect Oscar Grantaire to obediently repeat your talking points without picking them apart. Picking them apart is what he does.”

“I don’t—that’s not what I’m expecting—that’s not what I want. The press _should_ pick apart candidates’ arguments. Hell, he’s raised points in our interviews that have made my points _stronger_. It’s just… his articles… I don’t know. There’s something… off.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like he knows exactly what I’m trying to say and he’s purposefully missing the point.”

“Do you think it’s possible you’re reading slightly too much into this? ”

“Clem, there’s no such thing as reading too much into what the New York _Times_ is saying about you.”

“You have a point. Still, should Cosette be scheduling more one-on-ones with other reporters? I feel like she should. I’m going to write that down.”

“No, no, I don’t want that.”

“Why not?” Her level gaze bores into him with an intensity that makes him feel somewhat shriveled.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, when you figure it out, let me know. And by the way, Lesgles, who is working his ass off back in Pittsburgh completely by himself, has your Michigan, Ohio, and California headquarters almost ready to launch. We’re expanding, baby.”

* * *

Returning to the office after another student event, Cosette hands her phone to Enjolras with an expression that mixes bemusement with a bit of concern.

“You’re going to think this is a prank, but Bea swears it’s legit.”

He must look confused because Cosette gives him a pat on the shoulder.

“You’ll understand.”

He holds the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Xavier Enjolras?”

“Yes.”

“Chris Courfeyrac here. How are you?”

“Senator Courfeyrac?” He almost chokes.

A booming laugh hits his ear in warm waves. “The one and only. I have to say, I’m glad I finally got you. Let’s talk business.”

Seriously? Senator Courfeyrac wants to talk business with _him_? An unapologetically liberal Senator from a red state, with a backbone and a sassy streak, is reaching out to him wanting to talk business? Is this real life or is this just fantasy? He pinches himself to make sure. Yep. Real life.

“Business? Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve been watching your campaign for a while. It just so happens that Marius Pontmercy is one of my closest friends, and he is sick of me asking him about you. I think that what you’re doing is fantastic, and I’d love to get involved. If you’re interested, that is.”

He sputters. _If he’s interested._ He’s only wanted to be best friends with Senator Courfeyrac for about fifteen years.

It takes all the self-control he has to not sound too eager. He’s kind of an all-or-nothing person.

“That would be great. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I’d love to endorse you as publicly as possible, preferably in the great state of Missouri.”

“I—I would—yes.”

Courfeyrac laughs again, a big hearty guffaw that Enjolras finds incredibly reassuring in ways he didn’t know he needed to be reassured.

“You’re lucky you’re more eloquent in front of a crowd, my friend. Look, I’ll have my people talk to your people, and we’ll get it all set up.”

“Are—are you sure?”

“I called you, didn’t I? I want to do this. I believe in what you’re doing, and I can help.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to burn your bridges, though? I mean, endorsing a third party candidate is a pretty big deal, and the DNC is basically going to throw you to the wolves when you’re up for reelection.”

“First of all, they wouldn’t dare throw a popular Senator from a swing state under any bus, no matter how convenient. Secondly, you’re assuming that I’ll be running for reelection.”

“Won’t you?”

“That depends on you.”

“That depends on me? I don’t understand.”

“I know it’s about five months too early to be making announcements like this, and I know it’s pretty bold of me to even suggest this, but who were you thinking of as a running mate?”

“I—I hadn’t—we…”

“I thought so. Look, it’s fine to tell me to piss off, but I can bring a lot to the ticket. I’m established, but I’m not part of the establishment, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re a Democrat in a pretty consistently Republican state who managed to get reelected.”

“Exactly. I have a lot of friends, and a lot of people who owe me favors. Despite the popular narrative, people actually do take me seriously, and once they see that I’m serious about you, they’ll take you seriously.”

“Wow. That’s just… wow. Thanks so much. At this point, I can’t really commit to anything—I need to talk to my people about it, and you and I should talk in more detail—but put me down as very interested and let’s find a time to talk some more.”

“Absolutely.  I know you’re very busy and my call probably came as quite a surprise, so I’ll let you go. I’m glad I finally got you.”

“Thank _you._ I’m so glad you called, and I’m definitely looking forward to continuing this.”

He can barely breathe as he ends the call.

He needs to sit down.

_Senator Courfeyrac_ wants to join his campaign. _Senator Courfeyrac_ basically flat-out asked to be his pick for Vice President.

Senator Courfeyrac, who proved that running on a platform of liberal populist issues could get you elected even in Missouri. Senator Courfeyrac, son of a Shawnee mother and a white father, who emerged from Reservation poverty burning for justice for his people, pushed from their homes and stripped of their identities again and again and again. Senator Courfeyrac, beloved punchline for late-night comedians because of his frequent verbal missteps, but who takes it all in self-deprecating stride because he knows who he’s really fighting for, and it isn’t himself.  Senator Courfeyrac, who, behind his aw-shucks charm and twinkling eyes has one of the sharpest, most analytical brains in American government.

It’s overwhelming, and it’s going to take some time to wrap his head around this.

But there’s something he knows he needs to do.

He approaches Cosette to give her back her phone. “Thank you, Cosette, and yes I would have thought that was a prank if you hadn’t told me.”

She grins. “I know how much you love that guy.”

He nods, and turns to Eponine.

“Eponine, I need you to… do your thing.”

“Who am I vetting and does Bea know?”

“She knows. I need you to vet Chris Courfeyrac.”

“Senator Courfeyrac?”

“That’s the one. He’s expressed interest in becoming involved with the campaign, and as awkward as this is because I—“

“—because you have a crush on him.”

“I do not have a crush on him.”

“You have the dude equivalent of girlcrush. Do we have a term for that? Of course we don’t, because toxic masculinity. Let’s just say you aspire to bromance.”

“Whatever,” he sighs. “Fine. Yes. I need to make sure that there isn’t anything in his history that could become problematic.”

“The guy has no filter. He couldn’t be evasive if he tried. It’s a good thing he’s not on the Intelligence Committee, because he’d just go around spewing classified information.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely fair.”

“And I don’t think you’re entirely objective.”

“Just… do it, okay? And quietly.”

She winks and pats him on the shoulder. “You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear, Courfeyrac is here! (God, I love him so much.)
> 
> Grantaire calls Bahorel from the town of Plymouth, New Hampshire, because I used to live there. Nice little college town.
> 
> Also, “go back to whatever regional production of Newsies created you” might be my favorite line that I’ve written, ever.
> 
> Everything about Dixville Notch is true except for the number of voters. There were a total of 13 votes cast in the primary in 2016, the most recent primary—5 Democrats and 8 Republicans. My version of Dixville Notch has a total of 36 registered voters—17 Democrats and 19 Republicans.
> 
> And if you’re familiar with The West Wing episode “Hartsfield’s Landing,” you’ll recognize some dialogue. :)


	9. June - Something's Gotta Happen Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do, and you’re not going to second-guess me. And if shit hits the fan, this is on me and I back you up. Deal?”
> 
> In which a strategic gamble is made.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The remaining party primaries are a mere formality.

Senator Payne will be the Democratic nominee, and Governor Thornton the Republican.

Each of their campaigns have turned their focus from their intra-party rivals to each other. A long summer of rallies, state fairs, and conventions lies ahead before the final slog to the November finish line.

The debates—the only time the candidates will be in the same room together—will come in the final six weeks of the campaign.

Debates are game-changers. Simply getting the candidates on stage together is powerful, and levels the playing field in the voter’s mind, whether they’re conscious of it or not.

Combeferre has to get him on that stage.

To be included, a candidate has to have at least 15% in five national polls. Enjolras is somewhere between seven and ten percent, depending on which poll you believe, and as low as three in some. After a period of steady growth, he hasn’t moved more than a point in several weeks.

The fundraising has slowed down too. Cosette reports that people are unsubscribing from their email mailing list in droves, and their social media engagement numbers are down. Fewer retweets. Fewer likes and shares on Facebook.

Combeferre knows there has to be something else. Something she hasn’t thought of yet. Something brilliant, that would get his numbers to where they need to be.

She opens her office door and calls out. “Hey, Lesgles—I need to talk about July.”

He stands up from his desk, grabbing a pile of folders.

“What do we have for the Fourth of July?” She asks him.

“Nothing concrete yet—we’ve got some invitations to barbecues and to march in parades and such, but we haven’t committed to anything.”

She thinks for a moment. It’s risky, but it might work.

“Good. I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do, and you’re not going to second-guess me. And if shit hits the fan, this is on me and I back you up. Deal?”

He nods, hitting his head on a lamp in the process.

“Okay. Here’s what I want you to do. He’s going to give a speech at Independence Hall on the Fourth. He has to believe it’s genuine and that he’s getting an invitation. He’ll never go along otherwise.”

Lesgles nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He returns to Combeferre’s office half an hour later.

“We can’t get Independence Hall itself because they don’t host outside events, but I got the National Constitution Center down the street.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Felix. You’re doing a fantastic job.”

He leaves her office with a smile.

She picks up the phone and dials Enjolras’ number. He’s in Cleveland. It rings twice before he picks up.

“I’m on my way to an event, Clem, can this wait?”

“No. You’re speaking at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia on the Fourth of July. You can thank Lesgles later.”

Combeferre has never heard him squeal before, but the sound coming out of her phone comes pretty close.

“Have Johanna knock up a draft of a speech and you can revise it together.”

“No.” His reply is firm. “I’m writing this one on my own. She can look over my draft and give me suggestions, but this one is going to be me.”

“X, I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” she says, knowing there is no way in hell she’ll be able to change his mind.

“Clem, you need to trust me. I know that this is a make or break moment, and there are things I haven’t said yet that I want to.”

She sighs. “Alright. Have it your way. But I want daily updates on this speech.”

“You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's a tiny little 619-word filler chapter, but I promise that some REAL shit goes down in the next two chapters. Chapters 10 & 11 used to be one chapter, but I split it into two when I realized that it was more than 6500 words. Because they really are two halves of a whole, I'll be posting chapters 10 & 11 together, sometime in the next few days. If you want a preview of chapter 10, check [this](http://missmarionmac.tumblr.com/post/180289929964/im-going-to-post-an-excerpt-of-the-fic-im) out.


	10. July, part 1 - Here They Talked of Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re welcome. And what I wrote? I really mean it.”
> 
> In which he proves, to someone at least, why he should be president.

Ann Arbor, Michigan.

He knows that Combeferre is nervous when she still hasn’t seen a draft of his speech two days before he’s supposed to give it. He feels bad about having Johanna lie for him, saying that she’s seen an outline and it’s mindblowingly good, but this really isn’t one of those speeches that anyone else can write for him. Johanna is damn good at getting into his head, but for this one, she would have to get into his soul as well, and no one has ever done that successfully.

He stays up all night writing and rewriting and throwing balled up rejected drafts at the wall. There’s so much he wants to say, and he can feel it all bubbling up inside him, but he can’t quite find the words to release it.

He rereads Lincoln’s Second Inaugural. He rereads most of the Federalist Papers. He rereads several of his favorite prophetic Supreme Court opinions. But still he can’t form this lingering enigma of an idea into a cohesive argument.

By five in the morning on July 3, thirty-one hours before he’s scheduled to take the stage to give the speech, and three hours before he’s scheduled to be sharing breakfast with the residents of a retirement home, he’s worked out a structure that he’s vaguely satisfied with. He has four cups of coffee at the breakfast—black—and charms the bejesus out of the retirees.

He makes an unannounced trip to the press bus for the journey to the airport. It was unannounced because it was unplanned. He knows Combeferre will kill him when she sees him in a few hours, but it’ll be worth it.

The drive from the retirement home to the airport takes about half an hour, and he stands in the aisle fielding questions for the entirety of it. It’s pretty standard stuff, and he’s trying to find a way to test the waters for what he wants to say tomorrow, see if any of the questions get anything going to break up this writer’s block.

As they’re pulling up to the terminal, he says he’ll take one final question.

“What do you think about Governor Thornton’s comments on the Founding Fathers and individualism?”

He would recognize that voice anywhere.

And then suddenly he knows exactly what he wants to say.

“You know, Grantaire, I haven’t studied the governor’s remarks with any great detail yet, but I’ll get back to you on that.”

He can’t get off the bus and onto the plane fast enough. Ideas are spinning in his head—tangents shooting off, lists of references he wants to look up.

From the way she’s eyeing him as they board the plane, he can tell that Johanna sees the wheels spinning in his head. He doesn’t even need to call her over—she hops into the seat next to him, legal pad in one hand and a fistful of pens in the other, tucking her legs under her.

She hands him the legal pad, offers him his choice of writing implements, and he starts scribbling ideas down so fast it makes her head spin.

 _Declaration of Independence… founded on ideals… a nation out of nothing…contract…living up to our principles…hold ourselves to a higher standard…not a perfect union but a_ _more_ _perfect union…our work is not done, our work is just beginning…_

“That,” he points to the bottom of the page, where arrows from all the other ideas are pointing to the only complete sentence he’s written, “is what I want to say.”

_America is the greatest experiment the world has ever seen._

She nods. It’s the theme, she realizes, that they’ve been subconsciously working towards for months.

“Do you have the thing?”

She motions to her tote bag. “In there.”

He pulls out the battered volume containing the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution that he’s had since he was seventeen, and flips through the worn, familiar pages.

The flight to Pittsburgh takes less than an hour and a half, and when they land, he hands her several sheets of paper, almost completely covered in scrawl.

“It’s still pretty rough, but it’s coming together,” he says. “It needs more structure; it’s too fluid right now. Can you see what you can do?”

“Gladly.”

Enjolras and Combeferre are off to schmooze with some major donors, while everyone else heads for the campaign office. During the meeting, Enjolras tries a few of the lines he’s planning to use in the speech, and when they depart, Combeferre has several very large checks tucked into her pocket.

He’s itching to get back to work on the speech—literally, his hand is twitching, yearning for a pen. He longs to work on the speech in the way some people look forward to seeing their children after a long day at work.

Johanna hands him a neatly typed draft as he bursts into the office. She watches him carefully as he reads, pen in hand, making notes here and there.

He sets down the draft and rubs his eyes, as if that will cause what he wants to appear. “It’s getting there. It’s _so close_. It just needs that final… something.”

“I agree. I know you love Pauline Maier’s analysis, but maybe quote slightly more from the Declaration itself and less from her commentary.”

He sighs. “Fair point.”

“And I amended your word choice slightly. Don’t call the states _distinct_ , call them _unique_. Your eccentric uncle who drinks too much at Thanksgiving and shouts about Mexicans is distinct. Your lover is unique. Given that you’re basically trying to seduce the American people, guess which one we’re going with?”

“I am not trying to sed—“

“You may be in denial about it, but yes you are. Every presidential candidate since Kennedy has tried to seduce the American people. It’s why we’re still so uncomfortable talking about Nixon. He’s like the bad fling we don’t want to admit we had and liked, until we sobered up and saw that he got way too creepily clingy.”

“You’ve been watching too many episodes of _The Good Wife_ lately. Not everything political is about sex.”

Johanna throws her head back with a laugh. “Yes it is. If everyone got laid enough, there wouldn’t be politics. ‘Everything is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.’ So saith Oscar Wilde. Allegedly, anyway. That quote wasn’t attributed to him until the twenty-first century, so who really knows.”

“Why do I feel like you’re making fun of me?”

“Because I am, O astute one. Go revise your speech.”

“Someday I’m going to start getting offended by how much you talk back to me.”

“I’m your speechwriter. I’m supposed to be the obnoxious, sassy voice in the back of your head that vocalizes all the shit stuck in your subconscious.”

 _Damn_ , she’s good.

With an attempt at a sarcastic glare, he picks up the speech and heads for Combeferre’s office. It’s the only remotely private space at headquarters, and he shuts the door behind him.

He has to move a stack of newspapers to get at the computer keyboard. Today’s New York _Times_ is on top, and he can’t help but notice the article about him in the top right hand corner. _Candidate Enjolras calls for reform of education funding_ , as if that isn’t what he’s been saying for ten months. It’s by Grantaire of course, and against his better judgment, he reads the whole thing before getting to work on the speech.

And work on the speech he does. He tears it apart, stripping it down to the building blocks, and building it back up again.

He doesn’t think he’ll be entirely happy with it until he’s in the middle of delivering it and can gauge the reaction it’s getting, but for now, it will do. He’ll give it to Johanna and Combeferre, get their feedback, and give it a final edit in the morning.

Combeferre has two new ads for him to approve, and she manages to persuade him to eat something while they review them. He sends Johanna off with his new draft, and consents to watch the ads.

He hates watching himself on screen. If he wanted to watch himself on screen, he would have become a pundit.

It takes Johanna far longer to read the speech than it takes Enjolras to go over the ads, and he’s itching again. He considers making some calls, but he’s far too impatient. He would be snappish and short-tempered, and that’s not the way to get people to vote for you. So he goes over the latest polling data with Cosette in Combeferre’s office.

A few minutes in, when they’re discussing Missouri, Johanna comes in and hands the draft back to him. He glances over it, eyebrows furrowing. Johanna hasn’t written a single comment.

“Nothing to add?”

“My commentary is at the end.”

He nods silently, and Johanna turns to leave.

“Thanks, Jo,” he calls as she moves back out towards the desk that is theoretically hers.

She stops in the doorway and looks over her shoulder in his general direction, seeming uncharacteristically withdrawn. She rests a hand on the door frame.

“You’re welcome. And what I wrote? I really mean it.”

As she softly closes the door behind her, he flips to the last page of the draft. True to her promise, Johanna has written her comments in pastel green ink in the blank space beneath the end of the speech, in her vine-like handwriting.

_This is why you should be president._

He reads it through once, before squinting at it and reading it again, and again.

_This is why you should be president._

He hasn’t cried in a long, long time, but he feels the unwelcome pressure building in his eyes as he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. He’s good, he _knows_ he’s good, but getting validation always provides that much more motivation to keep going. Especially under this much pressure.

“Are you alright?” Cosette’s gentle voice reminds him that she’s still in the room. Everything had gone kind of fuzzy for a moment there.

He takes a deep breath before he responds. “Yes, I’m fine.”

He thanks Cosette, and, leaving the draft on Combeferre’s desk, follows her back out into the main office.

“There’s something on your desk that you should read,” he tells Combeferre. She nods and disappears into her office.

Enjolras and Lesgles are going over the map on the wall, discussing their progress in Ohio and Michigan and where their focus should be in the next six weeks or so, when Combeferre emerges. She silently approaches Enjolras, and rests her hands on his shoulders.

“You bastard,” she says quietly, and pulls him into a hug so tight he almost loses his breath.

“I guess she likes it,” he manages to croak to Johanna, who is sitting on a desk a few feet away and grinning like a Cheshire cat as she braids Eponine’s hair.

For the first time in months, Enjolras spends the night in his own apartment, and Combeferre invites herself to stay in his spare bedroom. He’s brushing his teeth, wracking his brain for any ways to improve the speech, when she sweeps in.

“Grantaire called about an hour ago. I told him, very nicely, to shove it.” She leans her hip against the sink and folds her arms across her chest.

He has to work very hard not to choke. “Why didn’t you put him through?”

“Because you were working,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Okay, new campaign policy: if the New York _Times_ calls, my schedule is clear.”

“Are you sure it’s not that if Oscar Grantaire calls, your schedule is clear?”

He spits. “He’s the _Times_ reporter covering this campaign, isn’t he?”

“For someone so smart, you are really, really clueless sometimes.” She sighs as she heads for the door. “He did ask Cosette to pass a message on to you though—that you said you would get back to him, you bastard.”

“Was the bastard part him or you?”

“Him.”

“Tell him if he wants my response to Thornton’s remarks, he can come to the speech tomorrow.”

Combeferre is halfway out the door, but turns and nods, staring at the floor tiles.

“I don’t want to put any pressure on you—God knows you do that well enough on your own—you’ve practically got a pressure cooker for a brain—but we’re at a crossroads here. We’re right on the border between obscure and legitimately contending, and you can really push yourself into the latter category if you deliver that speech tomorrow the way I know you can. It’s already a _good_ speech, even just on paper, but you can make it _great_ tomorrow. You have an incredibly rare gift, X. You bring abstract ideas to life, you make people see things—the way things are, the way things could and should be. You have this fire in you that makes people listen. I’ve been watching you do it for twenty years and it still amazes me. I know you run on righteous indignation, but just humor me and at least try to get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“ _We’ve_ got a big day tomorrow.”

“You’re the one on stage, X.”

She goes to close the door behind her, but he softly calls her name, and she sticks her head back into the room.

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

A wry smile appears on her face. “We all forget sometimes that you’re human like the rest of us.”

And with that, she leaves him alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Theoretically, he has the luxury of being able to sleep in.

He never does that. His body wakes him up around seven, as usual, and he’s lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking about the speech he will give this afternoon, when Combeferre bursts through his bedroom door and plants herself beside him on the bed.

“So, I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh, God, no,” he groans, pulling a pillow over his face.

Combeferre pulls the pillow away. “You’ll love it. I promise. If you don’t, you can fire me.”

“As if,” he snorts in response.

“So you know how, the other day, we were still trying to decide who to have introduce you this afternoon? There was someone in particular that I really wanted to get, but his staff wasn’t sure if he’d be available, and this morning I woke up to an email from his chief of staff saying that he _will_ be in Philly today, and he’d be thrilled to introduce you.”

“So who is it?”

Combeferre grins. “I’m so excited about this.”

“Clem. Who. Is. It?”

“Senator Christopher Lalawethika Courfeyrac.”

“You’re kidding,” Enjolras whispers.

“Oh come on, would I do that to you?”

“I hope not.”

“Well it’s true. The Senator will be landing at the airport in Philly shortly before noon. You will be at the Center doing a walk-through and sound check at that point, and the Senator will meet you there. You will then have lunch together, and the event will start at three o’clock.”

He nods. “Sounds good.”

“You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m really not. I think I’m still in shock.”

“Fair enough. But we have to be at the airport in an hour, so pull yourself together.” She gently smacks his leg as she stands up to leave the room.

* * *

Once they arrive in Philadelphia after a very quiet hour and a half long flight from Pittsburgh, Feuilly and some interns head for the hotel with the bags to get everyone checked in. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Cosette head to the Historic District for the walk through of the National Constitution Center, so Enjolras can get comfortable with the auditorium and the setup before the audience comes in. They do a sound check, and discover that one of the teleprompters should be a little lower, and angled more to the left.

He’s not exactly thrilled with the setup of the room, but he is coming to accept that as he does more and more big, rally-type events, he has to be up on an elevated stage.

Just because that’s the way things are doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He prefers being at the same level as the people he’s speaking to. He likes to be able to make out individual faces, to connect with people, rather than lecturing at a mass of blurry, indistinct humanity.

And as auditoriums go, this one is fairly small—only about two hundred seats.

The TV cameras will be set up at the back, behind the audience, because that’s the only place there’s room for them. Some members of the media will be back there with the cameras, but a handful will be up by the stage, standing off to the sides of the auditorium.

He tries not to think about which reporters will be where. That is something that really doesn’t concern him. But he’s thinking about it anyway.

“X?” Combeferre asks from the back of the auditorium.

Enjolras is standing on the stage, behind the podium.

“What’s up, Clem?”

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?” He asks before he bothers to think about what the potential answer might be. And then he realizes. “Is Senator Courfeyrac here?”

“He sure is, X. Should we bring him in?”

“Absolutely.”

Combeferre leaves through a door at the back of the auditorium, and Enjolras jogs down the steps from the stage to the auditorium floor. From where he’s standing now, the auditorium slopes up towards the back.

He paces back and forth in a small area beside the stage. He adjusts his tie. He adjusts his jacket. He clears his throat.

The door at the back of the auditorium opens again, and Combeferre comes back in, and behind her, laughing, is Senator Courfeyrac.

Enjolras blinks.

A fairly large part of him still doesn’t believe that this is actually his life right now.

Courfeyrac follows Combeferre down the stairs at the side of the auditorium. He’s practically bouncing, a wide smile on his face. He’s looking where he’s going, but then he looks up and his eyes lock with Enjolras’, and somehow the smile grows wider.

“Xavier Enjolras!” Senator Courfeyrac’s voice seems to fill the auditorium.

Enjolras takes a few steps towards him, and they shake hands.

“Senator Courfeyrac. Thank you so much for being here; it’s a real honor to have you here.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Enjolras. I meant what I said on the phone back in May. I think what you’re doing is fantastic, I’m excited to be involved in whatever capacity makes sense to you, and I’m really looking forward to hopefully getting to know you better.”

Not much causes Enjolras to blush, but he feels his face warming.

“Thank you, Senator. And please, my friends call me X, or just Enjolras.”

“Well then you’ve got to stop calling me Senator,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, patting Enjolras on the back. “Now, let’s have a look around, shall we?”

Enjolras shows Courfeyrac around—the stage, the doors to backstage, and the labyrinth of hallways leading to the dressing rooms.

“Alright,” Courfeyrac says in the dressing room, “I think that’s everything. Now, I was told there would be lunch?”

“My staff made a reservation at a restaurant a few blocks away, but if there’s anything you had in mind, I’m happy to go with that instead.”

“Well, I’ll eat pretty much anything, so I’m sure whatever your staff arranged will be lovely. So. Shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

His lunchtime conversation with Courfeyrac is one of the best Enjolras can remember ever having. They talk about their views on specific policies—eerily similar—and they talk about the deeper philosophical underpinnings of why they hold those views.

They finish lunch, leave a fifty percent tip for the wait staff, and make their way out of the restaurant to the sidewalk.

“We’ve still got more than an hour before we have to be back at the Center,” Enjolras says. “There’s a landmark around here I’d like to visit, since we have the time.”

“Ooh, Independence Hall? Liberty Bell? Ben Franklin’s House?”

“None of the above, surprisingly.” Enjolras points down a side street. “Something on that block there.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what it is?” Courfeyrac says with a grin as they head down the street.

“You’ll see when we get there. It’s not far. But it is on the other side of the street, so…”

Courfeyrac nods. They look both ways, and then shamelessly jaywalk to the other side of the street.

There’s a black sign on a pole in front of one of the brick buildings, with yellow lettering.

“Gay Rights Demonstrations, 4 July, 1965-1969,” Courfeyrac reads the first few lines of lettering. “Is this what you wanted to see?

“Yes.” Enjolras’ heart is pounding. “They had a demonstration on Independence Day, here in front of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, every year for four years. It was the biggest gay rights protest in the world at the time. But in 1970, they decided not to hold their demonstration as usual, but to go to New York, to support and join in a march marking the first anniversary of Stonewall. That march is now known to history as the first New York Pride Parade.”

“Wow,” Courfeyrac says reverently.

They stand in silence for a while, gazing at the sign.

“I suppose you’re aware of my sexual orientation?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I did see the interview you did on _60 Minutes_ when you were first elected, yes.”

“I know I said bisexual at the time, but I actually identify as pansexual. But there are enough jokes out there about me without needing to start a stupid rumor that I’m attracted to kitchenware.”

“I completely understand,” Enjolras replies.

They fall into silence again.

“It can’t be easy, being the first Senator to be both Native and out,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac sighs. “No, it is not.”

“Do you think this country is ready for a presidential ticket where both candidates are out?”

Courfeyrac grins, and turns to Enjolras. “What do you think?”

“I think if we waited to attempt progress until we felt like the country was ready, we would never make progress.”

“I agree completely.”

Enjolras nods, and looks up at the sign again.

“Just to make it completely explicit, Senator, I would like you on the ticket with me, if you’re still interested.”

Courfeyrac grins again. “I am most definitely interested. It would be an honor.”

“Terrific,” Enjolras says, blowing out the deep breath he’d been holding.

“C’mere man,” Courfeyrac says, holding out his arms for a hug.

Enjolras steps forward and embraces him.

Courfeyrac pats him on the back as they separate. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the major influences for The Speech (which Enjolras will deliver in the next chapter) is [Barack Obama's "A More Perfect Union" speech](https://youtu.be/zrp-v2tHaDo), delivered at the National Constitution Center in March, 2008.
> 
> "This is why you should be president" is allegedly how Obama's chief strategist David Axelrod [responded](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_More_Perfect_Union_\(speech\)#Events_prior_to_the_speech) when he read the final draft.
> 
> Johanna's note about "distinct" vs "unique" is an actual note I gave myself while working on an earlier draft of The Speech.
> 
> Also, the Gay Pioneers Historical Marker is [a real thing](https://equalityforum.com/gay-pioneers-historic-marker), that I'm very glad I discovered while researching for this chapter, because it just fits in so beautifully.
> 
> *Hamilton voice* ONE MORE THING! "Lalawethika," Courfeyrac's middle name, is a Shawnee name (his mother was Shawnee) that means "He Makes a Loud Noise", "The Noise Maker", or "The Rattle".


	11. July, part 2 - The Land That Fought For Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was starting to get concerned that you two had run off to start a utopian socialist commune somewhere.”
> 
> In which the game is changed.

They reenter the National Constitution Center through a back door, and make their way to the dressing rooms.

“Oh thank God,” Combeferre says as soon as she sees them. “I was starting to get concerned that you two had run off to start a utopian socialist commune somewhere.”

“Not yet, but we did talk about it,” Courfeyrac says with a grin.

“Senator Courfeyrac, you need to be onstage in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. “I’m ready.”

The audio from the auditorium is piped to the backstage area, and Cosette has a TV feed going on her phone, so Enjolras can see and hear everything that Courfeyrac is saying about him.

It’s somewhat ridiculous, really. They met for the first time a few hours ago, after having a brief phone conversation six weeks ago, but Courfeyrac is talking about him as if they’ve been friends for years. Maybe Courfeyrac is just legitimately that friendly.

When Courfeyrac has been speaking about him for about twenty minutes, Enjolras makes his way from the dressing room through the hallways to the door that leads to the stage. He stands there to wait to be introduced.

“...and that’s why I’m so thrilled to be here today, to endorse and introduce my friend, the next President of the United States, Xavier Enjolras!”

He’s heard himself referred to as the future president on many occasions since he decided to launch this madness, but it sounds different coming out of Courfeyrac’s mouth.

_Maybe, it might possibly be true._

The door swings open, and the wave of raucous applause hits him. As do the bright stage lights. Courfeyrac is standing at the podium, facing towards him.

Enjolras steps out onto the stage. He smiles and waves to the crowd. He approaches Courfeyrac at the podium, and as they shake hands, Courfeyrac pulls him in for a hug.

“I think I warmed them up for you,” Courfeyrac says.

“You sure did,” Enjolras replies. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I believe in you and what you’re doing, and I’m thrilled to be a part of it.”

Courfeyrac steps away from the podium, waves to the still-cheering crowd, and exits the stage.

Enjolras finds his footing behind the podium, grasping the sides of it.

He has the speech on two teleprompters, one to his left and one to his right, and he has a hard copy on the podium just in case anything goes wrong.

“Thank you!” He says, trying to get the crowd to start settling down. He clears his throat and opens the binder with the hard copy of the speech to the first page.

“Thank you so much.”

The audience is beginning to calm down. Some people have sat down, and the applause and cheers are dimming.

“Thank you so much,” he repeats. “Thank you.”

He takes another deep breath, and decides that the applause and cheers have died down enough that he can start delivering the speech.

He looks into the teleprompter on his left, and begins.

“I’d like to start by saying thank you to Senator Courfeyrac—” he’s interrupted by another wave of applause before he can finish the sentence. He looks out at the audience and smiles.

“Thank you to Senator Courfeyrac,” he continues, speaking over the applause, “for being here today, and for those incredibly generous words. It is truly an honor to have your support, and to call you a friend.”

The applause starts up again.

He’s more comfortable with it now.

“It’s wonderful to be here in Philadelphia, the birthplace of America, on the day that we celebrate that birth.”

He believes in the message he’s trying to deliver today with every atom in his being. He can feel it in the marrow in his bones. He just hopes he can do it justice.

“In 1776, and then again in 1787, a few dozen men gathered together here in Philadelphia, just down the street from here, at Independence Hall, to decide what sort of country they wanted to live in. Never before in human history had a people started a nation from nothing. Out of thirteen unique colonies with mutual interests and grievances, they created a nation.

“After each of these Conferences, they emerged with a document—in 1776, the Declaration of Independence, in 1787, the Constitution. And so the American Experiment began. For the first time in human history, a nation began with a contract, outlining the privileges and responsibilities of citizenship. For almost two and a half centuries, the United States of America has set the example worldwide for the social contract between citizens and their government. And it all began here in Philadelphia in 1776.

“In the Declaration of Independence, the Founders laid out the principles of freedom and self-determination that were worth a revolution, and in the Constitution, laid out a form of elected representational government with checks and balances, so that never again in America would one voice be able to silence all others.

“We are a nation founded by farmers and philosophers, blacksmiths and scientists. 

“The first European settlers wanted to try a new form of society. A society where all people were equals. A society without a state-mandated faith. A society where your importance was not based on who your father was, but how much you contributed to your community.

“America is the greatest experiment the world has ever seen.

“But too often in our history, we have trumpeted our ideals abroad without fully embracing them here at home. Too often, racial and ethnic minorities and the economically disadvantaged—especially the large overlap between those two—have been abandoned in favor of those who were born into more materially and socially secure situations.

“Our nation—a country that was founded on the promise of equality and self-determination—was built with the labor of those who were denied both, and built on land made available by forcing out the societies that had called it home for thousands of years.

“But the _real_ promise of America—the real promise outlined in that document signed all those years ago is that America always strives for improvement. We came together after winning our independence and we pledged that _together_ , we would create a more perfect union.

“Again and again, bold visionaries looked at American society and asked us to consider difficult questions.

“Could we _really_ claim to live in a society based on freedom and equality if large sectors of our economy were only made possible by forced labor, and thirteen percent of our population was held in the bonds of slavery?

“Could we _really_ claim to be a nation of immigrants if recent immigrants were discriminated against? If we denied entrance to the United States based on a person’s race, or country of origin?

“Could we _really_ claim to be a nation founded on the promise of democracy, if half the population was prevented from voting purely because of their gender? Could we _really_ claim to be a nation founded on the promise of democracy, if we put in place deliberately discriminatory measures to exclude from the voting booth those who had long been considered—based purely on prejudice—to be biologically and therefore legally inferior? Could we _really_ claim to be a nation founded on the promise of democracy when so many American citizens were banned from participating in the government that makes the decisions that shape all our lives?

“Can we really claim to be a nation that values equality and justice when we don’t give schoolteachers the resources they need to teach our children? Can we claim to be a nation that values equality and justice when, more than six decades after the Supreme Court declared in their decision in Brown vs Board of Education, that segregation, and the very idea of ‘separate but equal’ are unconstitutional and therefore un-American, more than six decades later and our schools are _still_ segregated?

“Elementary education is so important. _So_ important. These are some of the most crucial years in a child’s development, and if that child attends a school with inadequate resources, or a school that can’t afford to hire enough teachers, and therefore has huge class sizes that mean that the teacher cannot possibly give each child adequate attention, how can we possibly claim that we are living out our proclaimed values of equality and justice?

“Education is the bedrock of our society. Without equality in education, we can never truly be a society of equals. From equality in education springs equality in all things.

“This is the story of America, of living up to the values we proclaimed as our fundamental and founding principles. Again and again, we looked at ourselves and our society, and we said, _this is not good enough_. Our predecessors did not leave their homelands and travel halfway around the world for a nation that was _good enough_. Generations of Americans did not endure the bonds of slavery to be grateful for second-class status. Generations of Americans did not begin a seventy-two year march in Seneca Falls to be satisfied with only _one_ of the many fundamental rights that others took for granted.

“America has much to be proud of. In the years since we declared our independence, we have set the standard in exploration and innovation. The world looks to us for leadership. It can be a heavy burden to bear, but we cannot let ourselves believe that our greatest struggles are behind us. We cannot let ourselves think that just _believing_ in liberty and equality and justice is enough—we have to strive every day to carry out those principles in a complex world.

“It is not an easy task. But if our ancestors had wanted American life to be easy, they would have accepted things the way they were. But they _didn’t._

“The true American Revolution didn’t take place on the battlefield, but just down the street at Independence Hall, where the Second Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence. That Congress looked at the way things were, and they said, _this is not good enough_. They said that our government should be a reflection of the will of the people.

“I would argue that the American Revolution never truly ended. The Emancipation Proclamation, and the passage of the Fourteenth Amendment, which ended the horrific institution of slavery, was another chapter in the American Revolution. The labor movement that instituted the forty hour work week, the idea of the weekend, ended child labor, and insisted on the guarantee of basic workplace safety was an American Revolution. The creation of Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security—American Revolutions. The Civil Rights movement—an American Revolution. When, one night in 1969, Marsha P Johnson and her transgender sisters declared at the Stonewall Inn that they had had _enough_ of police harassment, _that_ was an American Revolution. When a group of high school classmates emerged from yet _another_ of America’s mass shootings, only to be met with apathetic platitudes from politicians who accept millions in donations from the NRA to prevent any meaningful gun safety measures from being enacted—when those young Americans stood up and spoke up, and said _‘enough is enough’_ —that is an American Revolution.

“As Americans, it is our duty to ask difficult questions, and to hold ourselves to a higher standard.”

He is gripping the sides of the podium, passion dripping from his breaking voice. He makes eye contact with seemingly every individual in the room, pleading with them as anyone else would plead with a lover drifting away. _Stay with me—I haven’t said everything I need to say to you. Please listen._

“Our Constitution does not promise a perfect union, but a _more_ perfect union.

“So, to say that our work is done, that America’s greatest days are behind her, disregards the work done by those who came before us, it disregards the work we must do, and it disregards the work that must be done by those who will come after us.”

The applause is swelling up to deafening.

“Our work is not done—our work is just _beginning!_ We must work together! We must work _hard!_ And we must never, _ever_ forget our founding principles of liberty, equality, and justice!

“ _That_ is the vision the Founders outlined in our founding documents. _That_ is the promise of America!”

The candidate has stepped back from the podium. Everyone in the audience is standing, clapping, some of them whistling or cheering.

Enjolras stays on stage, waving to the crowd, absorbing their reaction.

Standing in the press area to one side of the stage, Oscar Grantaire feels a tightening in his chest, and he presses a hand to his sternum. He could parse and analyze every rhetorical device in that speech. He knows exactly what every sentence is calculated to do—which ones will show up in campaign ads later, which ones were written for the evening news, which ones have struck fear into Thornton and Payne’s campaign strategists.

But even he could admit that it was one of the best speeches he’d ever heard. And he’s heard a lot of speeches. The thunderous applause had begun with almost a minute left in the speech, and the candidate had had to shout his final paragraphs over an increasing cloud of cheers, raining down on him exactly like he’d calculated them to.

Still waving, Enjolras exits the stage.

Combeferre is waiting on the other side of the door. She pulls him into a tight hug, and seems to have no intention of letting him go any time soon.

Over Combeferre’s shoulder, he can see Johanna and Courfeyrac a few feet down the hallway.

Johanna is grinning.

Courfeyrac gives him a double thumbs up.

Combeferre is still hugging him. “Oh my God, X. You did it. You did _that_. I am so fucking proud of you. So fucking proud.”

He flies most of the way across the country first thing the next morning.

* * *

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Combeferre calls the core staff together around Lesgles’ computer.

“You need to see this,” Eponine is saying, scrolling through something on her phone.

“Call Cosette and get X on the phone.” Combeferre orders.

Eponine turns away from the group for a moment, and Combeferre tells Lesgles to refresh the page.

“Holy shit.”

“How is that even possible?”

“I can’t… I just… wow.”

“I have Enjolras!” Eponine calls, handing her phone to Combeferre.

“X, you’re on speaker with the core staff. How’s New Mexico?”

“Hot as hell. How are things in Pittsburgh?”

Combeferre is biting her lip, trying to hold back the grin and suppress the glee in her voice.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Jesus Christ, Clem. Out with it.”

“You’ve gone viral.”

“I’ve what? I know I’ve been talking to Yukiko Joly about healthcare policy lately, but I don’t think we’ve covered _that_.”

“No, X, _you’ve gone viral_. Everyone is talking about your speech. It has _24 million_ YouTube hits—a million people an hour, X, are watching your speech. And that’s just the official version we put up. A bunch of the networks and cable channels posted it too, and their hits are in the millions as well. You’re trending on Twitter—not just in the U.S. but worldwide. You are the hot topic on every news station. Editorials all over the country are blowing gaskets talking about how good it was. Donations have been pouring in. We’ve already surpassed our total overall fundraising goal and it’s still four months to Election Day. X, this is big. This is everything we wanted out of this event and more. You are _spectacular_.”

There is silence on the other end of the line. Combeferre catches Eponine’s eye, and then Lesgles’.

“X? Are you there?”

“Aw, shit.”

“What is it?”

“Do I have to start making plans for after the first week in November? Who the hell am I going to pick for Secretary of State?”

Combeferre bursts out laughing, but is holding back tears. This is _real._ They are putting everything they have into this campaign, and it might just work.

In the days after the speech, they know that the challenge is to turn the virality of the speech into meaningful momentum for the campaign. People are watching the speech, sharing the speech with their friends, talking about the speech, but is that enough to convince them to vote for him? That’s the challenge.

It’s certainly what the cable news people love talking about this week.

Yeah, he gave an electrifying speech about his vision for America, and the fact that he’s single and incredibly hot and shies away from questions about his personal life certainly isn’t hurting the level of interest, but _come on_ he’s an independent with no party structure behind him, how can anyone possibly think he’s got an actual chance?

The irony, of course, is that the more time that people on TV spend crowing about the apparent fact that he has no chance, the more of a chance they’re giving him.

 _Yeah,_ Combeferre tells him when he’s on the verge of ripping out his much-talked-of hair in frustration, _they’re acting all shocked and saying that you have no chance, but at least they’re talking about you. You’re a part of the conversation now in a way you weren’t before._

And then when his poll numbers rise by six points virtually overnight and continue to rise steadily even after any bump from the speech should have worn off, and attendance at his campaign events triples, leaving a very flustered Lesgles to find larger venues on incredibly short notice, the dialogue begins to shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So.
> 
> The Speech actually predates this fic. It began as part of an original novel I've been working on since 2012. In that, it is delivered at a Fourth of July party by the American Ambassador to the UK, who is the main character's boss. It has evolved a lot since then, though, to the point that it barely resembles its original form.
> 
> Other influences include:  
> 1\. Enjolras' speech from the barricade in the Brick. There are a few lines that are taken from that, almost verbatim.  
> 2\. Obama's "A More Perfect Union" speech, as mentioned in the notes at the end of the previous chapter.  
> 3\. A conversation I had with one of my best friends, on a whale watching boat in the middle of Cape Cod Bay on July 4, 2013.  
> 4\. [This blog post.](https://thehistoricpresent.com/2008/11/16/the-great-american-experiment/)
> 
> (Also, did you catch the Hamilton reference?)


	12. August - Will The World Remember You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When you’re exhausted and you just want to curl up with your copy of Team of Rivals, remember why you’re doing this._
> 
> In which there are travels abroad, and the campaign receives some important paperwork.

In August, right as the two party candidates are heading into their pep rallies, more commonly known as party conventions, Enjolras flies to Europe.

They go to France first, where he gives an electrifying speech to a crowd of fifty thousand in front of the Arc de Triomphe, calling on the spirits of the Marquis de Lafayette and Alexis de Tocqueville.

Then he visits the American cemetery in Normandy, where the press photographs him kneeling before a marble gravestone, one hand resting on its gently curved top as if bracing himself by leaning on the shoulder of a friend. It is a brilliantly sunny day, the kind when it hurts to open your eyes.

He wears sunglasses that shield his brilliantly blue eyes from the camera lenses, and as he walks back to the car, no one is sure if he’s adjusting his shades or wiping something away. One astute Getty photographer snaps a shot of the headstone after Enjolras has walked away.

_Charles Enjolras  
1915-1944 _

The footage of Enjolras wiping away a tear as he kneels at the grave of the grandfather he never got the chance to meet is the top story on that evening’s news, eclipsing the first night of the Republican convention.

Then they are on to Poland.

They stop at Auschwitz, and a photo of the one sentence he writes in the guestbook with his initials and the date goes viral on Facebook.

_Lord, make us instruments of your peace. –XE. 8.22_

Cosette’s tech number-crunching indicates it’s especially popular in the pro-Israel parts of the Bible belt and among suburban soccer moms on Pinterest.

Then they are on to Gdansk.

Enjolras tours the port, and meets workers. The photo of him in a hard hat shaking hands with a crane operator runs on the front of the New York _Times_ alongside the photo of Governor Thornton giving his acceptance speech on day two of Republican convention.

The final stop is the U.K. He has a meeting with the mayor of London. He travels to the small mining town in South Wales that his ancestors left in 1872, and meets some distant cousins. The photo of him sipping Breconshire stout alongside his fourth cousin once removed is on the cover of _People_ the following week, with a thoroughly tabloid appropriate story about his charisma and good looks. It’s _People_ ’s third-best selling issue of the year.

He returns to the U.S. reinvigorated. He has a list of books he wants to read, places he wants to visit. He wants to go to the other side of the world—to China and Japan and India.

 _No,_ Combeferre says, _you’ll lose a day just getting there, and we need to turn this trip into support at home. You look presidential, but now it’s the home stretch. Time to pound the pavements._

Enjolras looks over his copy of the tentative schedule for the next two months, up until Election Day. At least three events, usually four, every day, with three hour blocks of unscheduled time for debate preparation, if they get the numbers in time.

As much as he loves this—meeting people, the challenge of making the same stump speech new and exciting when you’re delivering it four times a day, every day—he misses his old life. He can’t just sit around debating theories of Constitutional law with his friends anymore. Gone are the days when he could wander around Pittsburgh at three a.m. when he couldn’t sleep. He can’t even go to the hotel gym anymore—the press were jumping up from behind the stationary bikes and grilling him in between chin ups, so everywhere he goes now, the Secret Service puts a treadmill in his hotel room.

 _When you’re exhausted and you just want to curl up with your copy of_ Team of Rivals _, remember why you’re doing this. You’re doing this for the kid who is destined for the Supreme Court but can’t afford to go to law school. You’re doing this for the office manager who is sexually harassed every day but is afraid to quit her job because she’ll lose health insurance for her kids. You’re doing this for the coal miners who risk their lives every day because the coal companies are more interested in their short-term profit margins than in the safety of their workers and the future of the mountains they’re ripping apart and the air they’re burning into._

_You’re doing this because you have a pathological, egotistical need to be right, and there’s a stubborn, arrogant journalist with beautiful, soul-piercing blue eyes and a permanent smirk, and he’s gotten under your skin and made you find new ways to explain everything you have always believed in._

“X!” Cosette is shaking his shoulder.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” he insists.

“We just got this from the CPD.”

“Chicago Police Department?”

“Commission on Presidential Debates.”

“What is it?”

“A contract.”

“Huh?”

“You got the fifteen in five. Your aggregates are up to seventeen percent. Sign on the dotted line and you’re in the debates, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks out from the grotto in which I've been hiding since December*
> 
> Hi everyone! Here, at long last, is chapter 12. Yes, I will finish this fic. In fact, I have finished this fic. My personal policy has been to post a chapter once the one after it is completely written, and so I didn't post August (this chapter) until September (the next one) was finished. September really, really didn't want to be finished.
> 
> I have been reading your lovely comments, and I really appreciate everyone who has read this fic. Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> The treadmill-in-the-hotel-room is a story I heard straight from a Romney 2012 press aide (although Romney had an elliptical put in his room instead of a treadmill).
> 
> And Team of Rivals is a fantastic book. It will be referenced again in October.


	13. September - Is This Simply a Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just… I’m losing my sense of perspective. I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome or something. You have to pull me. I can’t be impartial anymore.”
> 
> In which there’s an addition to the campaign and someone reaches their breaking point.

Enjolras is the last candidate to announce his vice presidential nominee—not that there is a whole lot of suspense around his pick anymore. By the time the campaign releases the video officially naming Senator Courfeyrac as his choice, the Senator is going into his third month of actively and enthusiastically campaigning for Enjolras. Other members of Congress have endorsed him, but no one has done so as emphatically or extensively as Courfeyrac.

They make their first joint appearance as an official ticket over the Labor Day weekend, marking the one-year anniversary of Enjolras officially launching his campaign.

He also does another interview with Grantaire for an article for that anniversary.

“Do you have any regrets?” Grantaire asks.

“In my life in general, or in this campaign?” Enjolras replies, not even looking up from the debate prep notes he’s working on.

“I was thinking the campaign, but if there’s anything else you’d like to get off your chest, by all means, go ahead.”

Enjolras sighs. He puts down his pen. He rubs his eyes. He looks towards the window in silence for several increasingly awkward seconds before he speaks again.

“There might be one thing,” he says softly, still gazing at the window.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Grantaire asks. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._

Enjolras sighs again. For what might be the first time when he’s not multitasking, he doesn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes as he speaks.

“I… I regret… that I didn’t come out before… before starting this campaign.”

Time stops. It just grinds to a halt.

There are events, experiences, conversations that divide everyone’s life into “before” and “after.”

Some part of Grantaire will always be caught in that moment, in that room, sitting across from a presidential candidate, five weeks before the election, when said candidate has just told him that he’s… well, he’s not straight.

Was he trying to come out, in that first interview eight months ago, when Grantaire called him straight, among other things, and he repeated every other adjective Grantaire used but that one? Should Grantaire have followed up on that, _eight months ago?_

But surely Xavier Enjolras is a confident and decisive enough person that if he wanted to explicitly come out eight months ago, he would have.

Right?

But he didn’t. And he just said that he didn’t, and that he regrets it.

Grantaire clears his throat, and looks down at his notes, where he has been pressing his pen against the paper for at least thirty seconds. There’s a splotch there now.

“Why’s that?” He asks, somewhat surprised that he has a voice at all.

“Why didn’t I come out? Or why do I regret it?”

“Both?”

Enjolras drops his head into his hands as he sighs again. He runs a hand through that legendary head of hair.

Grantaire has never seen him like this before.

Human.

“I’m not really sure why I didn’t come out before. I think I made a lot of excuses to myself, to justify a decision that I think I knew on some level was wrong.”

“What were those excuses?”

“That I wanted this campaign to be about the issues, not about my private life. But the private lives of people who are members of the LGBTQ community, right now, are a political issue. And they shouldn’t be. But the fact that at some point I decided to hide that part of myself—even if I was hiding in the open—that decision contributed to keeping something political that should just be… human.”

“What changed? Why mention it now?”

“Well, you asked if I had any regrets.”

“Yeah, but no one expected you to answer honestly.”

“I expect myself to answer honestly.”

“Your running mate,” Grantaire continues, leaning back, “came out as bisexual shortly after being elected to the Senate.”

“Yes.”

“Was he a part of this decision?”

“You mean did I have a plan to come out that I discussed with him? No. I didn’t have any plan at all. Of course he’s become a close friend and I admire and respect him a great deal, but no, this isn’t part of some thought-out plan. You asked a question, and I answered it.”

Grantaire nods, slowly. He lets a few moments of silence pass by before he speaks again.

“So the first debate is in three weeks.”

Enjolras’ head snaps up, his eyes locking with Grantaire’s, his eyebrows merging in confusion.

“That’s a hell of an about-face.”

“It’ll be a new experience for everyone for there to be a third candidate in these debates.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere?”

“How are you preparing?”

“I know that you are fully aware that we are going up to Maine this weekend for an intensive debate prep boot camp.”

“Yes, I did receive that press release. Lovely state, Maine. Make sure to be photographed in an L.L.Bean jacket.”

Enjolras crosses his arms across his chest. “We’ve invited some press, but last I heard from my communications director, your RSVP hadn’t yet been received.”

“What can I say? I’m unpredictable.”

* * *

Grantaire shuts the door of his hotel room behind him and leans back against it, trying to get his breathing under control.

What the hell just happened?

He flips the light switch, illuminating the room.

He tosses his notebook and pen on the desk and belly-flops onto the bed.

Ugh.

Why?

He had had this under control. He had been doing his job, pretty damn well if he said so himself.

But now…

His traitorous brain begins to run through all kinds of intriguing possibilities.

He tries to shut that shit down immediately.

An already difficult job has now become impossible.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits a name in his contacts.

“You have to pull me.”

“What?” Bahorel replies.

“You have to pull me from this assignment. I can’t keep covering this campaign.”

“You’ve been writing great stuff lately—what’s going on?”

“I just… I’m losing my sense of perspective. I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome or something. You have to pull me. I can’t be impartial anymore.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Something he said in an interview just now. I can’t cover him impartially anymore. I just can’t do it.”

“What did he say?”

“That’s privileged.”

“God dammit, Grantaire, I’m your editor, not the police. I need to know so I can protect you.”

“And I’m telling you I can’t tell you what he said.”

“There’s something going on that you’re not telling me, and you need to tell me now.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You’re Oscar fucking Grantaire. If you can’t cover him impartially, no one can.”

“If I stay here any longer, I’m going to end up in bed with him.”

Several agonizing seconds of silence pass by before Bahorel responds.

“Well that’s new and different.”

“I can’t cover this campaign anymore. I need you to pull me back to New York. Now.”

This revelation was not what Gabe Bahorel was expecting when Grantaire demanded to be pulled. He gives him his assurances that he’ll look into it, to see if anyone else can take the assignment, and hangs up the phone. He sits still for a moment, and then bursts out laughing.

* * *

“This might be a stupid question,” Johanna pipes up, interrupting her spirited French rendition of “I’m Yours,” “but I’m a poet, not a strategist. What happens if no one gets a majority of the electoral votes?”

“It goes to the House of Representatives,” Enjolras mutters, eyes glued to the board, chewing a Twizzler.

“Where it will split along party lines,” Combeferre adds. “So that’s not an option. To win, we need to win outright on Election Day.”

Johanna nods seriously and turns her focus back to her ukulele, but doesn’t continue with the same song. Instead, she leans back, closes her eyes, and belts out “Nature Boy.”

_There was a boy_   
_A very strange enchanted boy._   
_They say he wandered very far, very far,_   
_Over land and sea._   
_A little shy_   
_And sad of eye,_   
_But very wise, very wise was he…_

_Until one day,_   
_One lucky day he passed my way,_   
_And while we talked of many things_   
_Fools and kings,_   
_This he said to me:_   
_“The greatest thing_   
_You’ll ever learn_   
_Is just to love_   
_And be loved_   
_In return.”_

Enjolras listens. It’s hard not to. Johanna may not have the most natural ability, but she puts so much passion and care into her singing. _The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return._ He appreciates the sentiment—really, he does—but he doesn’t agree.

All this freaking attention on relationships when he’s trying to change the fundamentals of American politics.

He’s never experienced this all-encompassing love other people keep talking and singing about. He’s never felt that for another person. And he doesn’t really feel like he needs it—he’s always done just fine on his own.

He watches _Lincoln_ the way normal people watch _Love Actually_.

Those heart-pounding, butterflies-in-the-stomach, stupid-grin-on-your-face-all-day feelings that other people associate with their romantic partners? He feels that for his country. He knows that other people think it’s weird, which is why he tones it down when he’s talking about it. But in those brief moments that he takes to occasionally devote real thought to his personal life, he doubts he will ever be able to love one person the way he loves America.

He’s not sure that’s a problem.

* * *

Bar Harbor, Maine.

They have an extremely limited amount of time for debate preparation, and Combeferre is exasperated. Enjolras is off his game, and he can’t afford to make mistakes like this with the whole world watching.

Thornton and Payne are both seasoned politicians. They’ve been participating in televised electoral debates since Enjolras was in middle school. They also both emerged victorious from bruising primaries where they did half a dozen debates each, in crowded fields, sometimes debating seven opponents at once. Taking on one opponent from the opposite party and an independent who had one speech go viral a few months ago will be a breeze.

And that’s exactly what Combeferre is afraid of.

She knows he can do this. She knows that _he_ knows that he can do this. The debates are his chance to prove that he can hold his own, that he can be presidential, that he doesn’t back down from a fight. The debates are the three occasions where the candidates are on the same stage, at the same time, fielding the same questions. It’s a level playing field like no other in American politics. This is his chance, and if his performance in the mock debates they’re holding to prepare is any indication, he’s blowing it.

He’s antsy, distracted. He’s tense, answering in clipped sentences dripping with impatient condescension. He’s getting numbers wrong, he’s forgetting the anecdotes they’ve drilled over and over. Combeferre is starting to seriously consider the possibility that this is the evil twin, and the real Xavier Enjolras is hiding somewhere, cracking up at her expense.

He’s pacing the makeshift stage, seemingly forgetting that there’s a podium he’s supposed to be standing behind, answering a question about tax reform, spouting numbers that will mean absolutely nothing to the audience because he’s forgotten to contextualize— _again_ —and Combeferre has had enough.

“No, you jackass,” she interrupts him, exasperated. “You do not start with the statistics, you start with the sob story. We’ve been over this. Context is everything. People don’t like numbers—they like images, they like stories. If you were allowed to present a PowerPoint or something, yeah, we would have graphs and shit, but you have only your words, your—are you even listening to me?”

“The press seemed awful sedate at the conference this morning. Did they not get their coffee or something? I was expecting to be raked over the coals, but they were all shockingly nice.”

Combeferre sighs. They’re not going to get anything done today. “Yeah, they were nicer than usual.”

There’s something she’s not saying, and Enjolras puzzles over what it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to include Nature Boy in this chapter years before Aaron Tveit was cast in Moulin Rouge.
> 
> Also, have fun finding the very intentional ode to a very painful incident in Enjolras & Grantaire's relationship in The Brick.


	14. October - The Time is Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know as well as I do that the Great Man theory of history is bullshit.”  
> “Is that why you have fourteen biographies of Abraham Lincoln?”
> 
> In which no one is prepared for the tornado that is the candidate on the debate stage, and more server space must be procured.

Combeferre had been hoping to spend the evening catching up on non-campaign news, but the knock on her hotel room door and the pouting best friend she finds on the other side dash any hope she has of being able to do anything productive.

“What’s up?” She asks him, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

“Do you have a minute?”

She really doesn’t, but she steps back and allows him into her room.

“I refuse to talk business after eleven pm, X. Not even with you. Unless it’s a crisis situation—and I mean a _legitimate_ crisis—like an attack ad we have to respond to or a gaffe from someone else we need to jump on.”

“So you just sit here in lotus position with your podcasts?”

“Hey—it’s called work/life balance, X, maybe you’ve heard of it. And don’t knock the Moth Radio Hour. It’s responsible for restoring the sanity which you seem determined to drive away.”

“Clem? Am I nuts?”

She collapses on her back on her bed—so _soft_ —iPad in hand. “Yes. You are certifiably insane. Next question.”

“I’m serious. Like, what are we even doing?”

“What are we doing? We’re running a presidential campaign.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure.”

Combeferre sighs, setting down her iPad and pushing her reading glasses to the top of her head. Sometimes Enjolras just wants to have a deep conversation and there’s no way to blow him off.

He flops down next to her on the bed.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he sighs.

“I’m not going to win, am I?” He asks quietly.

She doesn’t answer right away. She turns her head toward him, to find him staring resolutely at the ceiling, his hands resting on his belly, fingers intertwined.

“Are you asking for my opinion as your best friend or as your campaign manager?”

The only response is a grumpy “hmph.”

“Fine. Barring the most explosive, most surprising October Surprise ever, you’re not going to win.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Sometimes… sometimes great people come along, and the world isn’t ready for them. They say things—true things—that the world doesn’t want to hear.”

“You know as well as I do that the Great Man theory of history is bullshit.”

“Is that why you have fourteen biographies of Abraham Lincoln?”

He sighs, but doesn’t respond.

“What’s gotten into you, X?”

“What’s gone out of me—that’s the real question. I’m not sure. I’ve just felt… off. For a few weeks now. I feel like I’m missing a limb or something.”

Enjolras’ mention of the timing of his mental slump makes Combeferre suspicious. She pulls out her iPad—“Jesus, Clem, I’m trying to have a deep conversation here—“ “—shut up asshole, this is for your own good”—and checks her heavily annotated calendar. She tries to hold back the smirk as her suspicions are confirmed, but is unsuccessful.

“I’m glad you’re finding my angst amusing.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… nothing. Never mind.”

She sighs. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

He rolls over, looking at her with confusion. “What is?”

“Campaigning.”

“Yeah.”

“And it just… it’s never over.” She sighs again, folding her arms under her head, gazing up at the nondescript hotel ceiling. “You work your ass off on a campaign for two years, and you either win or you don’t, and then that campaign is over. So right away, you move on to the next candidate, the next campaign, and you have to reinvent the fucking wheel, _again_.”

“Yeah.”

“And sometimes I worry that I’m part of the problem, you know? Because what I do is about the campaigning, not the actual governing. We focus so much on the competition of the campaign, but the campaign itself isn’t what makes the laws and policies. That comes after the campaign.”

“Yeah.”

They lie side-by-side in silence for a few moments. The room is quiet, deceptively peaceful. There aren’t phones ringing, email alerts dinging, interns running around delivering messages. It’s just two best friends, gabbing late at night in a hotel room.

“What if I actually do split the liberal vote and that allows Thornton to win? I actually like Senator Payne—she’d be a good president. Thornton…ugh. Payne has turned out to be a far feistier candidate than I thought she’d be.”

“And who do you think is responsible for that?” Combeferre asks, rolling onto her side and propping her chin on her hand.

“Her campaign manager? The DNC?”

“Uh, you?”

“Me?”

“You’ve made her come after you. She’s had to come out swinging against two straight—well, presumably straight—white dudes with backgrounds in very traditionally masculine fields.”

“You really think people haven’t picked up on the fact that I’m not exactly the traditional redblooded American male?”

“You’re a labor organizer from the Iron Belt who looks like a long-lost Kennedy and speaks like Lincoln. I’m sure there are people out there who think that their suspicions of your queerness are just wishful thinking, but I don’t know how many people will believe it without photographic proof of you, say, kissing a dude, or hearing it straight from the campaign or someone very close to you.”

His thumbs twitch. He clears his throat. He closes his eyes for a moment.

“What if…” he begins. “What if… no, nevermind.”

“What if what?”

“No, it’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“What’s done is done.”

Combeferre bolts upright, something resembling panic seizing her. “What the _fuck_ do you mean by that? What sort of idiotic, impulsive bullshit have you pulled this time?”

“It doesn’t matter, Clem. It hasn’t gotten out by now, so I know it won’t.”

“What hasn’t gotten out? X, I need to know absolutely everything. You know that. We can’t afford to be caught by surprise by anything, especially not this late.”

“I may have said something to Grantaire, on the record.”

“What did you say?”

“That I regretted not coming out at the start of the campaign.”

“Grantaire has been covering the Senate race in Wisconsin for the last few weeks.”

“I know. That’s how I know he won’t publish what I said.”

She closes her eyes and repeats some mantras to herself. Any yoga teacher would be horrified by the number of profanities that they include, but that’s what works for her.

“Okay,” she says, giving Enjolras the bitchiest of bitchfaces she can muster. “You are going to go back to your room and think about what you’ve done. I have some calls I need to make. Get out of here.”

His jaw moves as if he’s about to respond, but no sound comes out. He nods, once, and then makes his exit.

Sighing again, Combeferre pulls out her phone. There’s only one call on her to-do list.

She makes it.

“Ms Combeferre,” a jovial voice on the other end answers. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Grantaire, I’m offering you an interview with my candidate.”

“I have already done literally several dozen interviews with your candidate. And besides, I’m not covering the presidential race anymore. I was reassigned to the race for Senate in Wisconsin. If you want to give an exclusive to the _Times_ I suggest calling—“

“Oh, bullshit.”

“You’re not off the record, you know.”

“I know damn well when I’m on and off the record. And I’m calling bullshit on your reassignment. Go ahead and print that if you’d like to.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I know that you weren’t reassigned against your will, you requested it. There’s no way they’d send _you_ to cover a race no one cares about—not when you’ve been writing stuff like you’ve been writing—unless you specifically asked for it. What I can’t figure out is why.”

A bitter laugh echoes out at her. “Your emotional intelligence is one of your greatest assets as a strategist, Combeferre. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Okay, fine, I know exactly what’s going on, and so do you, but I wanted to give you a chance to explain yourself, and he’s too single-minded to entertain the possibility that his recent funk is anything other than simple campaign fatigue.”

“Is luring me back part of your campaign strategy? Christ, Combeferre, you must be desperate. Not to mention, the ethics of this are incredibly questionable.”

“I will give you three hours alone in a room with him. You can ask whatever you want—hell, you can _do_ whatever you want for all I care—but he can never know that this conversation took place.”

* * *

Enjolras arrives for his morning press availability feeling somewhat uneasy. He hasn’t had the chance to talk to Combeferre since she threw him out of her room, and clearly she’s up to something, but he doesn’t know what, or why.

Once the reporters start asking questions, though, he feels himself click into gear. They’re asking about policies as they shove microphones and recording devices in his face, close enough that he almost has trouble lifting his travel mug full of coffee to his lips.

It just feels right somehow. The autumn sunshine streaming through the vivid leaves, warming the crisp morning. The questions about Medicare. Grantaire’s bright blue eyes darting between him and the notebook he’s holding as he scribbles his notes.

Wait.

Grantaire?

* * *

Minutes before the first debate is set to begin, Combeferre gives Enjolras what she thinks is a pep talk.

She takes his face in her hands, forcing him into eye contact with her.

“They think you don’t deserve to be out there on that stage with them. To them, you’re a nobody. You’re the bug on the windshield, and with this debate, they’re going to try to turn on the wipers to squash you. Don’t let them do it. You are more than capable of holding your own out there. Everyone who matters is watching tonight, and they’re looking for a reason to write you off. Don’t let them do it. You have something to say. Make them listen. Make them hear you.”

With a pat on the back that is perhaps slightly too enthusiastic, Combeferre sends Enjolras off.

It is abundantly clear from the moment they all walk out on stage together that Thornton and Payne are prepared to tear each other apart, limb from limb, and completely ignore Enjolras. And as soon as he opens his mouth, it is abundantly clear that Enjolras is not going to be ignored.

No one on that stage except for Enjolras himself is prepared for the tornado that is Xavier Enjolras.

He’s a force of nature. He appears out of nowhere, gathering strength from the winds around him, demanding attention merely by existing. Whether or not he destroys you, flattens you to the ground with one forceful motion, depends entirely on how fast your reflexes are, and whether you have given yourself enough time to get out of the way. He waits for no one, and may God help those who do not heed the warning signs until it’s too late.

Even the moderator, hosting his sixth presidential debate, is awestruck.

Combeferre is glued to the monitor backstage. Her eyes don’t leave the screen once, even as interns fuss around her, fielding phone calls she ignores. Cosette is set up with three laptops in front of her, sending out flurries of tweets, tracking the live polling data, and somehow responding to media inquiries with truly breathtaking efficiency.

Combeferre analyzes and evaluates his every word, his every expression. He’s confident but not cocky, aggressive but not mean-spirited, knowledgeable but not condescending.

His posture behind the podium is so perfect she wants to weep. He’s standing ramrod straight, shoulders back, but he doesn’t look stiff or posed. His eyes are glued to whoever is speaking, whether it’s a fellow candidate or the moderator, except when he briefly looks down while jotting a note with the pen and blank paper each candidate is provided.

Thornton is answering a question about gun policy. He’s giving the standard NRA-provided Republican talking points, about the Constitutional right to bear arms as enshrined in the Second Amendment, and the right to hunt and to defend one’s home.

“…but unfortunately, people who are determined to commit acts of evil will find a way to do so, no matter what our laws are.”

“Mr. Enjolras?”

He’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

“Some of my fondest memories of my father are from the first week in December, when deer hunting season opened in Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania, which, by the way, Governor, is second only to Texas in the number of registered hunters. Unfortunately, I lost my father about two years ago, but every December, now, I take my nephew hunting and I remember everything I learned from my father. I know how ingrained firearms are in our culture. I completely respect the Second Amendment. However, I guess if criminals are just going to commit crimes regardless of the laws, what’s the point in having laws at all? What’s the point in having a drinking age if young people are going to drink anyway? Why have any restrictions on the sale of tobacco? Why require driver education and licenses if criminals are just going to ignore them? The Governor believes that if something is difficult and makes the NRA less likely to support him next time, it shouldn’t even be attempted. The President of the United States cannot be afraid to take action on an issue because it’s unpopular. The governor believes that because there are some bad apples who break the rules and harm others that it isn’t even worth trying to improve where we can. The governor loves to talk about bad apples, but the thing about bad apples is that if you let them stay there, the rot spreads to the surrounding apples. And the governor’s proposed policies would let the entire crate of apples rot because it’s too hard to sort through and pick out the bad ones. Well, unlike the governor, I’m not afraid of a little hard work. The governor believes that we are broken and we cannot be fixed. And the governor is wrong.”

As the feed cuts back to the moderator, Combeferre punches the sky and can barely hold back a victorious holler. He nailed it. He so completely nailed it.

Childhood father-son bonding over shooting innocent animals with rifles: check.

Subtle mention of tragic death of father: check.

Subtle mention of playing paternal role for nephew: check.

Going for Governor Thornton’s jugular and saying he’s lazy, afraid to make tough decisions, and believes America is not capable of greatness: big fucking check.

She wants to run out onto the stage and kiss him in a sisterly I-am-so-fucking-proud-of-you way, but they still have twenty minutes to go.

“Bea?”

She looks up and finds herself face to face with one of Cosette’s courier interns.

“Hmm?”

“Cosette says to say that ‘bad apples’ and ‘the governor is wrong’ are already trending on Twitter. And that we need to buy more server space for the website because it’s coming dangerously close to crashing.”

“Perfect.” She sighs contentedly. “I love my job, I love my job, I love my job…”


	15. November - When Tomorrow Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He exhales. This is it. This is tomorrow becoming today. It’s time to face the reality of everything he’s dreamed of, everything he’s planned for._
> 
> In which the future must be faced.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

The last few days are the hardest. He works himself raw. Unless it’s part of a campaign stop, he doesn’t bother to eat. He’s running on caffeine fumes and fervent patriotism by the end.

The night before election day, he holds one last big rally in Ohio, and then boards the plane to Pittsburgh. Followed by a dozen cameras, he casts his vote at 6 a.m. and then heads out to spend the day making calls and knocking on doors.

They have a hotel ballroom for tonight. He and his staff and his family (although the lines between staff and family are becoming blurrier by the day) will watch the returns from a suite on the top floor while his supporters mingle in the ballroom. And then, once everything is in and the results are decided, he’ll go down and make his speech.

It’s over. This is the day—the day they’ve been working towards for almost a year and a half. Everything will come down to how well they carry out the plans they’ve been building for the last fifteen months. Every contingency has been planned for. There is nothing that can surprise them now.

But still he feels that there should be more. More he can do. More he can say.

The day is a blur. He makes hundreds of phone calls, knocks on dozens of doors. So many handshakes and pleasantries and smiles when he wants to get out there and fight.

Everything will be different tomorrow. Hell, everything will be different by eleven o’clock tonight.

He’s been counting down the days—counting down the hours—for a year and a half, but he still hasn’t wrapped his head around the fact that today is the finish line.

Except that it isn’t. Today is the finish line of the campaign, but the work is never finished. Isn’t that the central thesis of his most famous speech?

No matter what happens today, a new administration will take power in January, alongside a new Congress.

And there will be so much work for them to do.

Because he is who he is, he refuses to go to the hotel until the polls in Pennsylvania close—as long as there are still voters to call, he will keep calling them—and even then, he asks Cosette for a list of voters in Michigan, where, thanks to the time difference, the polls are still open.

At nine o’clock, they manage to get him into the hotel, where he paces the suite like a caged animal and refuses to consume anything but a few sips from a water bottle.

A few minutes after ten, he excuses himself from the crowd of staffers and slips into one of the suite’s bedrooms by himself.

By ten thirty, half an hour before the polls close on the west coast, the results are a mathematical certainty.

He is alone when the words go up on the screen in front of him. It seems somehow appropriate that he be by himself, watching as news anchors narrate his fate.

The big red, white and blue banners with the name and face of the new president-elect swell up on the kaleidoscope of plasma in front of him. He hears the reaction of his friends and his staff in the next room, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than sink down onto the couch, burying his head in his hands. As one chapter ends, another begins.

He glances over at the table, where three speeches are neatly laid out. Twelve floors below, he knows the teleprompters are being set up, with one of those speeches loaded in, ready for X to make his statement to a world waiting with baited breath. Johanna will come in in a few minutes to discuss any last minute changes to make to the speech, given the events of the day.

But first come the silence and the phone calls. There are unwritten rules to follow, precedents and rules of political sportsmanship, and so he waits, as he listens to the cacophony of his closest aides echo through doors that were supposed to be close to soundproof.

He stands, and goes to the glass table, and runs his hand over the printed out draft of the speech he will deliver soon. The paper is silky smooth under his fingertips, the crisp black lettering looks like gibberish.

_This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve learned what it means to be human, to be fallible, to feel overwhelming desire for what’s out of reach and what I can never hope to be worthy of. The golden child has learned what it feels like to despair._

_I am not worthy, oh Lord. I am not worthy of what I must do tonight, of the burden I must bear._

He thinks he’s imagining the soft knock that comes at the door, but as he squints at his future, printed on campaign letterhead, it comes again.

“X?” He hears Combeferre’s voice through the door.

He exhales. This is it. This is tomorrow becoming today. It’s time to face the reality of everything he’s dreamed of, everything he’s planned for.

“Yeah? Come on in.”

Combeferre opens the door just wide enough to slip in, and over her shoulder, he can see Eponine hitting Cosette over the head with a red balloon as they embrace. Pushing the door closed with her foot, Combeferre indicates the two iPhones she holds, one in each hand.

“I’ve got Thornton in my right hand and Payne in my left, which I thought would be appropriate. Who do you want to talk to first?” 

* * *

He walks out onto the stage set up in the ballroom seventeen minutes later. He’s on autopilot. It’s an out of body experience. Of all the things that are a part of this process that he dreamed of, this was an event he blocked from his imagination.

He launches into his speech, feeling like he’s watching himself from the rafters.

“Not long ago, I spoke to Senator Payne and Governor Thornton…”

He can’t even get through the first sentence before the applause drowns him out.

“…we all congratulated one another on a hard-fought race…”

Grantaire watches from the base of the stage, scribbling notes without even thinking about it.

_Oh, you. This thing you’ve done. Was it worth it?_

  
  
  


_Fini._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Everyone take a deep breath.
> 
> I am approximately 7k words into the sequel. I don’t know when I’ll start posting it.
> 
> I really struggled with how to end this fic. I do know how the election turned out, because sequel. But the choice to leave it ambiguous here was very, very deliberate.
> 
> Writing this fic has been a huge thing for me. 
> 
> I started writing it in December of 2013, as an escape from the weeklong anxiety attack I was having related to my huge project for my political communication degree. The last five years of my life have been nothing short of a rollercoaster. I dropped out of university twice, I’ve moved eight times, been through two incredibly traumatic deaths in the family, and become a stained glass artist. And that’s the short version.
> 
> Finishing this fic is a huge milestone. This is the first multi-chapter fic I’ve ever completed. It’s surreal.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read it, and left kudos and comments. I have read every single comment, most of them more than once, and they mean the world to me. I’m so incredibly grateful.


End file.
